


Leading The Blind

by Krysilious



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Amy Bendix, Bisexual Frank Castle, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Blind Character, Blind Date, Can you imagine it?, Case Fic, Coffee Shops, Crime Fighting, Developing Relationship, Don't worry, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Fist Fights, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Frank Castle as a bartender, Frank Castle needs a hug, Gun Violence, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Identity Reveal, Karen Page Knows Matt is Daredevil, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, POV Frank Castle, POV Matt Murdock, Pancakes, Past Matt Murdock/Karen Page, Season 2 Rewrite, Secret Identity, Sensuality, Service Dogs, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Romantic Tension, mutual idiots, neither can Matt, no beta we die like (wo)men, so what better than hugging each other?, this tag is true to its word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29160474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krysilious/pseuds/Krysilious
Summary: Going on a blind coffee date with ex-military man Frank Castle proved to be very therapeutic, in the most opposite sense of the word.Of course Matt falls in love with him.It's a shame that Daredevil and the Punisher are oblivious idiots who are less than thrilled to be running into each other at the most inconvenient times, and evenlessthrilled to be sharing Hell's Kitchen together.They'll work it out, eventually.
Relationships: Amy Bendix & Frank Castle, Frank Castle/Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page
Comments: 57
Kudos: 132





	1. Frank Castle, Ex-military, Likes Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Foggy forces Matt to go on a blind date and Matt is unsure who he wants to strangle first. Karen and Matt finally get some closure on their relationship.

When Foggy suggested that he should go on a blind date, Matt almost choked on the german beer clutched loosely in his hand.

"No," he said simply.

"Why the hell not?" Foggy persisted — nearly _pouted_ — as he watched Matt in utter frustration. "I mean sure, you wouldn't be able to see them, but you've got a sixth sense for sensing if someone is hot. Still don't know how that works, but what the hell do I know about Matt Murdock? If she's hot, he'll know!" he says, tone laced with exasperation.

"There are other ways to see, Fog," Matt replies dryly as a small crooked smile tugs at his lips in amusement. "But really, I don't know if someone is hot," he says with a lazy shrug, taking a long swallow of his beer and remaining ever so neutral. 

"Well, there's only one way prove it. Am I—" Foggy says, thumb jerking back to point at himself, " _hot_?" His eyebrow lifts in question, a smug grin settling on his face.

There's a short pause, interrupted only by the faint drumming of Matt's fingers against the side of his drink. He hears the soft tinkling, the slow drag of his fingers as they glide over the rim before coming to a stop abruptly. The air is suddenly much more sharp on his tongue, so he wisely raises the bottle to his lips and tips it all in one go, relishing in the tangy aftertaste.

"Okay, buddy. While the silence is really nice, it wasn't needed to get the point across," Foggy says ruefully with a small snicker. 

Matt laughs. 

"Alright, so I'm not the hottest sun in the solar system. Why not take the chance and see if you get lucky?" Foggy jives, and he sounds genuinely enthusiastic despite Matt's ever growing concern that's spreading across his face. "Don't give me that look! You can't keep following me around the office like some lost puppy dog. No, don't give me that look either, Murdock. You need to get out there and—" he gestures wildly in front of him, hands flapping jerkily. "Live your life!"

"Foggy Nelson, are you implying that I don't lead an already fulfilling life?" Matt breathes, a muscle in his face twitching in slight disbelief. "And I don't follow you around like a lost puppy," he adds indignantly with a huff even as he feels his cheeks burn with a sudden warmness that paints his face a sullen pink.

"If by 'fulfilling life', you mean getting off on beating the shit out of scumbags in the streets at night."

"Foggy—"

"And getting your ass kicked. Repeatedly. Actually, rather frequently if we're going to be completely honest here."

"When was the last time I got my ass kicked?" Matt asks pointedly with a blank stare, his lips raising in a tight smile to counter Foggy's annoyed groan. 

"See, Matt. That's the thing. There shouldn't be a last time! There shouldn't even really be a first or second time, unless you piss off the wrong people. Which you do," comes the sigh as Foggy pinches the bridge of his nose and runs a hand through his unwashed locks. 

"Look, someone has to protect this city," Matt says and he can't help the slight twinge in his chest with each word. "Someone has to keep people safe."

"And that all gets dumped onto the shoulders of Matt Murdock?"

"I suppose so," comes the clipped response. 

He feels the rush of air and the familiar clink and knows Foggy has set down his beer to peer up at the red tinted glasses that effectively cover his eyes. A barrier that Matt wears everyday to remind himself of the achingly vast hole of loneliness that he's dug for himself — that he continues to dig. 

He swallows hard, deciding to focus his attention to Foggy's uneven breathing.

"Go out," Foggy finally says, but it's a soft and soothing tone that washes over him like warm blanket. "Meet people. Have a drink. Live your life. Not just as Daredevil, but as Matt Murdock, attorney at law, who despite all the crazy shit that's happened — actually has a future ahead of him. A bright one, if he just chooses."

Matt offers him a bitter smile, his tone layered with such a wistful twist that he knows his voice cracks from the sudden dryness in his mouth. "What if this path has already been chosen for me?"

"Jesus, Matt. That's bullshit and you know it. No one possesses you to put on that stupid suit and go out every night to stop a mugging or a robbery," Foggy replies with a steely look as he stares at Matt with such an intensity that he can feel the spark of anger that lights his eyes ablaze with a hidden, cold fury. 

"You see— everyone is always complaining about not being able to have the choice to decide their own future. The thing is," Foggy continues quietly, "they have _every_ opportunity to change their own outcome. They just choose not to, and then they suffer."

"So you're saying I'm suffering now?" Matt questions vehemently as he lifts his chin. 

"Are you saying you like your life right now, Matt? That you would do anything to keep this?" Foggy says almost impassionately, despite the increasing beat of his heart that's thumping in his chest at a rapid pace. "You enjoy having murderers, rapists and crime mafia lords running around the streets in Hell's Kitchen?"

"That's— that's not fair, Foggy," Matt manages with a forced exhale, head downcast so that his face is unreadable against the bleak shadows that consume the room in hungry shapes.

"Life isn't fair, Matt. That's why everyone has to make do with what they're given to even dream of having an ounce of happiness in this world. You, on the other hand, seem to run from any chance, any sliver of some kind of gratification or happiness."

"That's not true," Matt objects as he narrows his eyes. "I live this life because I have to, not because I want to. Do you think I want to end up alone with no one to love, and never be loved in return?"

"You tell me, buddy. I'm not the one who pushes people away and flirts with death on a consistent basis," Foggy replies sharply, his jaw clenching in irritation. "Are you that scared of ending up happy or something?"

The words rake hurt over Matt's body as his lungs ache from the lack of oxygen. Finally, after a moment, he asks. "Foggy, if you had the opportunity to save someone— would you do it?" 

"Matt—"

"Answer the question."

Foggy's heart slows considerably, his muscles visibly relaxing as he takes a deep breath. "Yes, I would," he answers quietly.

"Every night, I hear their cries for help. I hear little girls sobbing in their beds, people begging for their lives out in the streets, praying for some kind of savior to come and rescue them." Matt's head tilts, his bottom lip trembling softly as he recalls the intrusive memories. "I'm Daredevil because people like them _need_ me."

Foggy's heartbeat skyrockets.

"Yeah, well _we_ need you, Matt. As a friend. As a partner at our law firm. Matt Murdock, you know? The guy who was my roommate back in college when we didn't know what the hell we were doing— still don't," Foggy tries with a dry laugh. "Matt Murdock can do a lot of good for Hell's Kitchen, if he could only see that."

"He does," Matt admits with a sigh, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He's just a stubborn bastard is all." And that's just the honest truth.

"God, if I knew this guy personally, I'd kick his ass," Foggy mutters under his breath but Matt can feel the rush of air as he attempts to suppress another laugh. 

"Someday, Fog," Matt promises him. "I know it's coming," he replies with a pleasant lift of his lips. On more than one occasion, Matt knows when Foggy just wants to slap him upside his head.

Foggy lets out a low hum, taking a deep breath that he knows he deserves before settling his gaze on Matt again. There's a persistent glimmer that clouds his eyes.

"So… blind date," he starts.

Matt groans. "Foggy, _please_."

"Seriously, it won't be that bad! I can even— uh.. I'll be your personal wingman, swoopin' in to save the day! The best part is that you won't even know I'm there," he adds with a wink.

"Have you taken a look at previous relationships Matt Murdock tried to have, and where it lead?" Matt replies dryly, ready to spill out of all the reasons that congregate on the tip of his tongue.

"And everytime, Matt Murdock neglected to heed the advice of Foggy Nelson, appointed wingman." There's a smug grin that plasters Foggy's face, and a child-like glee that he hasn't seen in years. It would almost be refreshing, had Foggy not been trying to interfere with his love life.

But, predictably, Matt gives in.

"Alright. So I take the advice of Foggy Nelson," Matt huffs, already thinking of several scenarios that he knows Foggy would butcher. "First, I actually have to find someone who wants to go on a blind date with a _blind_ person."

"Leave that to me," Foggy answers automatically as if he hadn't been planning this scheme for months, if not longer. "The only thing you'll have to worry about is what you're going to be wearing. Though, I'm sure someone else can help you out in that department," he states with a small shrug.

Matt nearly splutters on his own saliva. "What's wrong with what I wear?"

"Nothing, buddy. I'm sure whatever you find will be acceptable," Foggy says oh-so-innocently even as the glimmer of mischief twinkles in his eyes — or so Matt imagines it.

Well, it's not like he's got much choice in the matter anyways. He'll play along for the most part, he guesses. So instead of pointlessly arguing, Matt opts for a sigh. "Yeah, alright," he says as he caves in.

Foggy offers him a bright smile, obviously pleased with his decision. "Just one question— girls or boys?" 

Matt stops, and actually blinks behind his glasses in complete bafflement. It's a simple question, but the answer has never been as simple as he would like. "I— um. Well," he stammers feels the rush of warmth in his cheeks as he drops his head in embarrassment. "I don't..." He trails off, suddenly at a loss for words.

"I get it," Foggy says gently with such deliberateness that it snaps Matt's attention to the sound of his voice. "Listen Matt, it's the 21st century. You know Karen and I would support you no matter what, not that I should have to say that but y'know. I just need to know in case we find another devilishly handsome man to pair you up with. I mean, who knows?"

"And how am I supposed to know that?" Matt replies with a quirk of his lips, the flush of his cheeks cooling rapidly as he takes a deep breath to steady himself. 

"Don't worry. I can be very thorough when explaining people's faces," Foggy assures him with a flash of teeth. "Yours, for example, I'd describe as extremely punchable."

"Ah," Matt hums, realization suddenly hitting him like a freight train — or maybe it's the bruise across his ribs that throbs in response. "So that's why so many people seem to gravitate to me. I always thought it was just my charm." 

"Very smooth, Murdock," Foggy replies with a small condescending finger wag. "But no. Charming isn't exactly what I'd use to describe you." He seems to contemplate for a moment, and Matt can almost envision the visible gears grinding and turning in his head. "I think the words you're looking for is elusive dick," he offers ever so bluntly.

" _Ouch_ ," Matt scoffs as he sets down his empty bottle with a double edged smirk. "No need to be so brutal to a blind man. Go easy on me, Nelson. After all, what would you do without me?" 

"Probably live a normal life," Foggy replies honestly and snorts even as Matt's lips part in disbelief, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards at the severity of his answer while Foggy just stands there and laughs.

It feels nice.

When all Matt can hear is the expanding of Foggy's chest, he lets out a heavy exhale of his own. There's a tiredness that seeps into the very narrow of his bones, poisoning him from the inside out; a disease that cannot be cured by medicine or therapy.

And somewhere, in the back if his clustered thoughts and hazy mind, he knew that it would take him someday.

It's the sound of glass sliding across the counter that has Matt snap back to the present, hand twitching out of caution and lack of action despite the inner turmoil happening in his head. 

The unanswered question still lingers in the air like a stray fly that buzzes around and can't be ushered out of a home, and Matt is painfully aware that he's dragged this on for far too long. 

Admitting something to himself was normal, even reassuring at times. Saying it out loud was like concreting the very fact he had been so adamant about keeping to himself. He prided himself on his privacy and ability to do things on his own without anyone's help. It helped protect the ones he cared about, and kept them out of harm's way so he didn't have to worry about them. Sure, he knew that somewhere, distantly, he was pushing them away. But with every push, he had a justifiable reason to put up walls that sometimes he didn't even think were necessary. And that scared the hell out of him.

How easily he took comfort in the black hole of loneliness that threatened to suffocate him in every waking moment.

So, he figured he owed Foggy this one reprieve. 

"Both," Matt says hesitantly as Foggy's eyes suddenly bounce to meet his, peering up at him carefully. "I like both men and women," he clarifies with a horribly awkward cough as he tries to clear his throat with an uneasy smile. Real smooth, Murdock.

"Shit, Matt," Foggy says and there's a sense of comfort as he feels the happiness radiating off of his stature. "Alright, good. Thank you for telling me," he continues sincerely as his wide smile only grows. "I got this. You just sit back and practice being charming." 

There's a sharp ding and a rustle of fabric as Foggy reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. His heartbeat increases just a fraction, and that's enough for Matt to frown suspiciously at him with caution. 

"Should I be worried?" Matt asks curtly as he raises an eyebrow to inquire about the noise. 

Before Foggy can answer, there's an abrupt knock at his door.

Foggy rushes to it, reaching out to grasp the knob and turn as it opens with a long drawn out squeak. 

Dress shoes, women's, click across the wooden floor and stop in the small hallway. A light perfume wafts in the air, and Matt recognizes it immediately. Fresh roses — as if they were picked for a bouquet just for him, tied with a silky blue ribbon. 

Karen.

He can tell she's wearing a dress, it's obvious by the way the fabric shifts and moves against her skin as she walks. Her breathing is a little uneven, as if she had taken the stairs and her blonde locks drop gracefully across her shoulders like a makeshift cape. He knows she's smiling, eyes bright with so many things that he was unable to give her.

"Hey," Karen greets to no one in particular as she offers them both a warm smile. "Seriously, it's been like what? A couple months since I've seen you guys?" 

"It's been way too long," Foggy admits, opening the door wider so that she can walk through.

Her black dress shoes slide over the floor with nothing but a faint shuffle, coming to stop in front of Matt. Her gaze rakes across his face, studies his ever so neutral expression, before turning away. "How's the law firm? Still standing, I hope," She says conversationally. There's amusement glittering in her eyes as she hangs up her grey trenchcoat with relative ease and walks to sit comfortably on Matt's couch. 

"Still standing, I'm afraid. Matt's been running around with all the hot clients around the city," Foggy replies gruffly as he shoots Matt a look full of animosity.

"So, same old, same old?" Karen huffs a soft laugh, and something in Matt's expression softens when he hears her. 

"Beer?" Matt says out of the blue, not even realizing he's asked until he hears Karen's heartbeat flutter for half a second before returning to its steady rhythm.

"Uh— yes please. I'd love one," comes her uncertain reply. 

Matt forces a relaxed smile and proceeds to rummage through his fridge. When his fingers brush against the cold slickness of the auburn colored bottle, he grabs it and closes the door with a soft click. Gingerly, he sets the beer on the table and hears the pop of the lid as Karen opens it with one twist.

"Guess they don't have that in London, eh, Miss Page?" Foggy snickers at her sudden enthusiasm.

"Not really, no," Karen replies as she takes a long swallow, humming contently as the alcohol floods her tongue, heavy with nostalgia. "Just to be clear, I only came back for the beer," she informs them with a small smirk as she takes another drink, savoring every drop.

"Are you staying then?" He decides to ask, ignoring the way he sets his jaw to prevent it from coming out so desperately. When she doesn't respond right away, he wets his lips in frustration and turns his head to face the dim lighting from the street lamps that pools in through the windows. 

"I'm staying, Matt."

Almost instinctively, Foggy turns to face him with a knowing look. For as long as Matt has known Foggy, he takes great comfort in their partnership, and appreciates his willingness to do things together or not at all. It's no surprise to him that they both want Karen back, so Matt nods ever so slightly to confirm Foggy's suspicions.

"And if you guys are still in need of a secretary, I'd love to come back to the office. For good," she confirms, heartbeat steady. 

"Of course," Matt replies, as if on autopilot. "You know you're always welcome here." The words tumble out in a jumbled mess, so he masks his relief with a blank expression. 

"What Matt said," Foggy agrees with a deliberate nod of approval. "Though, I was thinking that we probably need a janitor more than anything. _Someone_ —" his gaze shifts to Matt with a fiery intensity, "has been leaving cheeze-it snack bags everywhere around the office." 

"Matt?" Karen gasps as she turns her head to stare at him, her mouth opening in mock disbelief. "I never took you for a litterer." 

Matt gives her a courteous smile. "Excuse my colleague. He's well versed in the act of lying in a court of law," he adds dismissively with a snort.

"Pay no attention to him," Foggy says with a familiar scowl. "Nelson and Murdock would be happy to have you back, Karen. You could start first thing tomorrow if you'd like and I can— oh _crap_ , Marci!" There's a buzz and a shrill ping as his phone starts vibrating in his shirt pocket. Foggy lets out a groan. "I've gotta go. Girlfriend emergency. I'll see you two at the office, seven am sharp."

"Foggy—" Matt starts, but he's already at the door and flinging his coat on in a hurry. 

"Seven am sharp, Murdock. That means don't get your ass kicked tonight so that you'll be late tomorrow," Foggy points out dryly, and then he's out the door with nothing more than a breeze of the hallway air from outside.

If Foggy wasn't going anywhere important, Matt would've decked him right then and there for leaving him in this painfully awkward situation. 

He closes the door with a sudden wariness, securing the lock with an audible click. Karen's heartbeat is incredibly calm despite her attempts to try and even out her unsteady breathing. As if on cue, she raises the beer to her lips with reckless abandon, taking a large swig of the shimmering glazed liquid to curb her nervousness.

He joins her on the couch, leaning forward with his hands neatly piled on his knees.

"So," Matt starts, ducking his head briefly as he curses his inability to talk. "How have you been, Karen?"

"I've been… good," Karen states with a small, uneasy smile. "London was a great place to get away to. Lots of people, but strangely refreshing."

"That's great, Karen. I'm really happy for you." And it's not a lie.

She must sense his increasing apprehension because the next thing he knows, there's a soft and pliant hand that reaches out to touch each of his knuckles with tender strokes. He knows she sees the purple bruises that litter his otherwise unmarred skin.

He's pretty sure he stops breathing.

"Listen, Matt." Her breath tickles his face with every exhale, and he can smell the pungent odor of the alcohol that coats her tongue. "You didn't make me leave Hell's Kitchen. It was my own choice, something that I needed to do to get away from—"

"Me," he answers for her, forcing a dry swallow. "You needed to get away from me." 

"Matt—"

"No, Karen. Be honest with me. Between you finding Elektra in my bed that night, to my unexplained absences from work— from seeing you." Something in his expression hardens, his voice only barely above a whisper. "I told you about me being him, Daredevil. I set us up to fail, Karen," he manages after a shaky breath. 

"No, Matt."

He lifts his head to look at her.

"We set ourselves up to fail. Listen," she says quietly as she bites her lip. "I had to get away because I couldn't handle seeing you every night, beat to hell, and knowing there was nothing I could do to help you or change your mind about being _him_."

"Karen, you know that's not true," Matt replies curtly with a small shake of his head. To think that she ever even thought that makes his face twitch in annoyance. 

"I'm not done," comes her swift reply. "We had _god_ awful communication, Matt. I kept things from you, and you kept things from me. We both thought we were only doing it to keep each other safe, when really, we were tearing each other apart." Her fingers sweep across his thumb idly, her heartbeat increasing a tick as he returns the motion. 

"We played the role in our own demise. Do I wish we could go back and change it? Of course, Matt, but we can't. All we can do now is move forward."

"Move forward," he echoes distantly. "God— Karen. These past months, all I did was worry about you. Did you really expect me to move on while you were in London by yourself?"

Karen's mouth forms a thin red line, moving to brush one of her stray locks out of her face. "You know I can take care of myself."

Matt's voice is incredibly soft. "I know."

Karen pauses. The street lights outside cast bleeding shadows across the floorboards, enveloping them both in makeshift tents. Finally, she lets out a tired sigh. "I was worried about you too by the way. I thought that I would come back and find you gone, or dead somewhere." She lets a dry laugh escape, followed by a sorrow filled smile. "I was afraid I'd miss the funeral or something."

"Karen." His voice resumes its low baritone, eyes downcast in guilt. "You know I'm as careful as I can be. I wouldn't ever do that to you."

"You have a specific day in mind of when you'll die?" And this time, despite the heaviness in the room, Karen is strangely amused. She knows it's something he has no control over.

"Yeah," Matt replies in kind. "No Mondays or Wednesdays. Also, not in February. Bad for business," he informs her with a shrug.

"Hilarious," she says flatly. "I guess I should've stayed in London until you sent a postcard about your passing."

Matt lets out a breathless laugh, because god, he honestly might have. Even if he had kicked the bucket, he's almost positive that Foggy would die just to kick his ass in the afterlife and nag him about his self righteous bullshit that got them there in the first place. It's a comforting thought, really. 

"What made you come back?"

Karen blinks, her posture visibly slouching as she leans forward and places her hands neatly in her lap. "I missed my friends," she states slowly with an upwards raise of her lips when she meets his gaze. "I missed my old life." 

"Well," Matt starts and raises his empty beer with a placid smile. "Welcome back, Karen." 

Karen hums a thanks, bringing her now empty bottle to his with a resounding clink that rings a melodic symphony in Matt's ears.

"Speaking of lives," Karen says with an all knowing twinkle in her eyes. "Foggy tells me he's trying to set you up for a blind date," she informs him with a kid-like giggle.

"How did you…?" Matt trails off, perplexed. Unless… "You've been in contact with Foggy this whole time." He doesn't have the energy in him to even sound mad. It's almost amusing.

It's the hitch in her breathing that gives her away. "Yeah. Everytime I called, Foggy made sure you weren't around with your super hearing devil ears," she explains with a tight lipped smile. "Sorry, Matt."

Matt just grumbles incoherent sentences under his breath, raising his hand to drag across his face in frustration. He probably should've seen this coming, knowing them both.

"But for what it's worth," Karen says gently, interrupting his thoughts. "I really _really_ think you should do it." 

"Will you and Foggy get off my back if I do?"

"Yes." It's a promise.

"Fine. One date, and one _only_. I better get lucky on the first go."

"Oh, come on, Matt." This time she scoffs, a low grating sound in the back of her throat as she stares at him in irritation. "One date, seriously?"

"One date." 

"You're impossible," comes her exasperated reply, but she's laughing.

"Yeah, I know." He can't help the smug grin that spreads across his face, and he really starts to lose it when Karen smacks his arm in return. 

The clock to his left lets out several happy notes that ring out in a shrill squeak, mimicking the call of wild birds. A simple reminder of how long they've been talking. He feels her shift on the couch, the cushioning rising from her sudden absence.

He can tell her intention is to leave, way before she moves to reach her coat down from the hanger. 

"It's late." The trenchcoat sweeps across her form, snuggling close as she buttons it up with nimble fingers. "I should probably go."

He refuses to admit that he hates to see her walk through that door again, alone. So instead, he asks. "Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" 

She stops, half turns towards him and wets her lips. Her lack of response is enough for him to shake his head in disappointment. He wasn't going to let her find some run down hotel, and she certainly wasn't going to go back to their office.

"Stay here, tonight." It's not really a suggestion. "Foggy and I can help you find another place in the morning. The paperwork at the office can wait a couple hours."

"Matt, no—" Karen starts to protest. 

"It's not a request, Karen," he huffs even though they both know he wouldn't ever deny her the right to leave. "Take the bed."

That makes her raise an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth raising slightly in confusion.

"Take the bed," he repeats. "I'll take the couch," he decides to clarify with a friendly smile. The response is immediate, and he can feel the radiating redness from her cheeks as she realizes her mistake of assuming they were sharing a bed.

He moves to help her shrug her coat off as her fingers fumble with the black buttons. 

There's a small intake of air as she watches him finish and return it to the hanger with absolute certainty. "Thank you, Matt." Her voice is barely above a whisper, but she knows he's heard her all the same.

"Anytime," Matt assures her. Awkwardly, he gestures to the bedroom to the left and listens as she follows his motion, stopping at the edge of the bed. 

"Silk sheets, Matt?" Karen asks innocently, even though she knows. 

"Anything less and it feels like sandpaper against my skin," Matt mumbles and hates how pitiful he sounds. Those silk sheets cost a pretty penny.

"Ah, right. You're _sensitive_ ," Karen teases and can't suppress her giggle as Matt scowls almost identically like Foggy does. 

"That sensitivity has saved you more than once," he decides to point out with a huff of hot air.

 _Buzz_.

Karen looks down at her phone. 

"Foggy, you amazing man!" Karen exclaims in excitement, as if he was standing right in front of her. Sheepishly, she turns to Matt with a smug grin plastered across her face. 

"No, no, no—" Matt starts, waving his hand in the air as if to bat her away.

"His name is Frank Castle." She's laughing this time, but it's genuine and almost song-like. "He's ex-military. Likes dogs," she offers as if she's consulting him. 

"Karen—"

"Look. Foggy and I aren't going to force you to do anything you don't want to," she says with an honest smile. " _But_... you did tell me you'd go on one date," she points out as he groans in defeat.

"He wants to meet tomorrow at the coffee shop on 42nd."

Matt sighs heavily. "He's not the one."

"And why is that?"

"An ex-military man who wants to meet at a coffee shop," Matt states flatly with apparent skepticism. "With a blind man."

Karen gives him this strange look, eyes squinting in disbelief. Her nostrils flare in annoyance. "You run around in a red devil suit beating people senseless."

Matt opens his mouth to deliver some kind of witty defense, but wisely shuts it when Karen shoots him another accusatory look. Sighing, he reaches up to gently pluck his glasses from his face, setting them down on the bed stand with a clatter. 

Karen follows his movement carefully. "Where are you going?" She asks, caution lacing her tone.

"Out," he says simply with no particular warmth.

He strides out of the room in a matter of seconds, leaving nothing but his echoing footsteps as he stops in front of the ill placed closet underneath the stairs. Kneeling down, he rummages for the rustic chest on the floor. It takes him less than a minute to find the familiar texture of the red suit buried comfortably underneath his Dad's old boxing outfit.

"Really?" It's not really a question, but she asks it anyways.

"There's a woman down the street who's being stalked by a drunk," he states clinically as he begins to assemble the pieces of armor. "She won't make it to her apartment." 

" _Jesus_ ," Karen inhales sharply.

The gloves are the last thing that Matt slides on, sealing them with a satisfying snap. The material feels incredibly light, despite being so durable in battle. Melvin did a good job.

He begins his climb up the stairs, heading for the fire escape with renewed vigor as he focuses on the huffing from the man below, alcohol staining his teeth. There's a harsh exhale to his left, and he knows Karen is watching him in bitter dismay. They both know better than to argue. 

"Matt," Karen calls softly once he reaches the door. 

He stops, hand clasped around the knob. 

"We're good, right?"

He breathes in the room, her faint perfume seeming to tug gently on the strings of his heart. "Yeah, Karen." He smiles, and it's not sad. "We're good." 

Then, he's out the door and into the cold depths of the night.

As he follows the uneven heartbeat, he imagines the surprise of the man when he sees the protruding horns and the devilish red that almost glows under the dimming lights of run down street lamps and the cool illumination of the moon. Distantly, he knows he can't wait for that satisfaction.

He finds the drunk trailing her by a couple feet, staggering around and jiving at her with an empty bottle of whiskey loosely in his hand. 

He can't help the grin that splays delicately across his lips.

Even as his gloved hand makes contact with the man's cheek, he irritably finds that his thoughts drift elsewhere. 

_Frank Castle, ex military, likes dogs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only supposed to be around 2,000 words, whoops.  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this very long (but necessary) filler and set up of how this story is going to look! I really wanted some kind of official closure between Karen and Matt before introducing our buddy boy Frank into the picture. This is supposed to be set around Season 2 (but it's more of an AU rewrite where Frank Castle's identity isn't known). 
> 
> As for Matt and Karen's relationship, I know they don't get together until season 2 but a little author magic moved that along so I can wrap up their romantic relationship together before my season 2 rewrite. ;)
> 
> I know Matt would 100% be able to tell Frank is the Punisher long before he ever goes on a date with him, but for story sake, we're just going to roll with this idea that they're both hiding their identities from each other very well.
> 
> Happy reading y'all!


	2. Coffee Shops and Lemon Drops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank is surprised by an unexpected guest, and decides to make pancakes in the morning for them. Afterwards, he's let on that he's actually supposed to be attending a date in thirty minutes. Off to the coffee shop he goes to meet the infamous Matt Murdock.

By the time Frank reaches his apartment, it's dark and eerily quiet, even for him. 

Each step he takes feels like he's sinking deeper in the never ending sinkhole that threatens to swallow him up right then and there on the brown and white painted carpet. With every push forward, he feels himself falling quicker.

The only thing that stabilizes the ground underneath his feet is the familiarity of the cold brass knob against his fingers. 

It had been a long day.

He pushes the key in and swings the door open with nothing more than a quiet whine.

Immediately, he's greeted with the overbearing stench of stuffiness and cleaning products that he had used to get those irritable red stains out of the carpet and the couch.

"Home sweet home," he grumbles to no one in particular.

With a low grunt, he lets the black duffle bag drop from his grip and clatter to the ground with a thump. Usually he'd be more careful with his arsenal, but tonight he just wants a goddamn drink.

So that's exactly what he does.

It should be a crime at how fast he can open a beer, bringing it to his lips with a wet kiss as he just sits there at the counter and lets the alcohol numb his body while his thoughts drift elsewhere.

He's not quite sure when exactly he gets up to go to his bedroom, but what he does know is that the knob to the door is warm — as if someone had lingered with their grubby hands all over the knob before finally deciding on coming in. 

All Frank can think about, however, is that he's almost out of stain removers. 

The cool metal of the pistol is smooth and light in his grip as he yanks it out of his leg holster with nothing more than a subtle click. He knows he's got about one mag left, and a lot of pent up energy from his earlier scuffle. Whoever thought it would be a good idea to break in and stay in his bedroom was about to be sorely mistaken. He almost felt bad for them.

He takes a deep breath, hand tightening around his pistol, before rearing back and kicking the door down with a guttural yell.

There's a high pitched shriek as he busts through, weapon raised and ready to put 18 cartridges into whoever thought it'd be a good idea to stake it out in his bedroom.

It's a girl.

It's _her_.

"Amy," Frank breathes. Cold relief washes over him in waves, and with a curse, he holsters his gun and raises his hand to run over his face in disbelief.

The vintage lamp he had bought from a thrift store illuminates the room perfectly in a glowing yellow against the beige walls, and paints her face clearly in his mind. She's really here, in his bedroom, _chilling_.

He watches her closely, something in his gaze softening when he looks at how damn good she looks despite being two years since he last saw her. Her hair is just as wavy as he remembers, and falls gracefully in blonde streaked locks around her shoulders. Her eyes that shade of warm shade of jade green with flecks of ocean blue. 

His look of tenderness is soon replaced with cold calculation as she shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, snapping him out of his thoughts.

She's stretched out across his unmade bed, white earbuds dangling precariously around her neck as she just stares at him with a blank look. As if he's the one breaking into her room, uninvited.

"What. the. _hell_?" Frank finally spits, jaw setting stiffly in something of calculated fury. "What are you doin' here!" He barks.

Her whole form visibly relaxes despite his obviously angry demeanor, and she lets out a long exhale followed by a bright smile. "Hi, Frank."

If he wasn't so relieved to see her, he would've kicked her ass right then and there.

"I could have shot you," Frank hisses as he starts to pace around the room with heavy breathing, worry clouding his features. "You know better than to break in unannounced, knowing I'm armed and dangerous. The hell were you thinkin' kid?"

"You would've still pulled a gun on me if I came to the front door and knocked," she points out with an accusatory glare. "I was tired, so I decided I would stay here until you got back. Besides," she states with an innocent, crazed grin. "You didn't shoot me."

Frank turns to give her a dirty look, growling. "Still debating on it."

She shrugs.

" _Jesus_ — How did you even get in?" He grunts with a disapproving sigh, moving to sit on the edge of the bed in exasperation. He doesn't like the way the bed squeaks in return.

"I uh—" Amy starts, her lips tugging upwards in amusement. "I jimmied the lock," she admits casually with a small bat of her eyes.

Frank snorts. He totally didn't see this coming. "Of course you did," he quips in response, irritation dripping from his tone. "Goddammit."

"Hey, shouldn't you be happy I'm here?" Amy asks him with a raise of her eyebrow and that playfulness that he's relieved she's kept through the years. "Last time I saw you, I was put on a bus and you had me go to that diving school."

"Where you were supposed to stay," Frank reiterates with a cold regard. 

"Yeah, well what if I don't want to go back?" She questions, lifting her chin in defiance. "My only friends — the only people who ever gave a damn about me — are back here, in Hell's Kitchen, doing God knows what." She slides off the bed and stands up, peering at Frank with her jaw set in finality. "I'm staying _here_ ," she emphasizes with a steely look.

And really, Frank considered it. Back before he put her on that bus, shoved a fat wad of cash in her hands and sent her on her merry way. He wanted to let her stay; that is, stay with him. But he just _couldn't_. 

"It's not safe here for you, kid." Frank states, and it's a simple answer that should be incentive enough for her to quit arguing, but she doesn't.

"And how do you know I'm safe there?" She asks simply. Her eyes meet his, and something in her gaze hardens as realization dawns on her. "Because I'm away from you?"

"Yes." And it's the truth.

"Bullshit." And there's that stubbornness he's always seen in her, something that just won't allow her to give up. Internally, he's smiling, but on the outside, he scowls again. Her persistence might be the death of her someday.

"Look," Frank tries and does his best to sound reasonable. "I can't babysit and do my job at the same time." At that, she whips her head around to give him that teenage look he could recognize anywhere. He sighs deeply, realizing that maybe that wasn't the best choice of words. "I really am happy to see you kid, but you can't _stay_ ," he says even as something in his heart twists.

"I'm eighteen, Frank." She scoffs this time, and it's grating and condescending in the way she addresses him. "I'm not a kid anymore, and you don't have to 'babysit' me."

"And I can't have you gettin' in my way," Frank counters coolly. "The last thing I need is you getting hurt on my watch. That ain't on you kid, it's on me." 

"So I won't go with you on your stupid jobs or whatever," Amy clarifies with a dry snort. "Let me just stay here then. I could clean this place up, make dinner for you, patch you up if you come stumbling in half-dead?" At this, she clasps her hands together and brings them up in an act of romantic gesture. "I could be _such_ a good wife," she swoons mockingly.

"Amy," Frank manages after a second. He shakes his head mutely, his hand running across his unshaven chin and noting the way it catches on a fresh cut. "Really, kid. Why are you here?"

The way her breath catches — neither out of anger or frustration — is more than enough for an answer. 

"I can't just visit you because I missed you?" Amy asks with a sigh, a forced smile spreading across her face even as her eyes don't quite meet his.

"Y'know it's never as simple as that," Frank replies with a scoff, watching as she turns away in dismay. 

She laughs, breathless and low in return. "You always were a prick," she remarks distastefully, eyeing him with a wistful glance. 

He grunts in response. 

She pauses, her fingers stroking along the creases of her khaki jacket absent-mindedly. "I don't want to be alone anymore, Frank." The corners of her mouth turn upward in bleak remorse, her eyes glued to the beige carpet that lines the floor. 

Frank's mouth is suddenly dry, his tongue heavy like led. Something tugs gently at his heart, and he has the sudden urge to reach out and pull Amy closer to him for comfort. 

Her tired eyes lift, shifting to meet his gaze —something in them glinting in the warm light. He can't tell if she's crying or not. 

When she speaks, it's a hushed whisper that brushes past his ear in a tender, careful manner. "Aren't you sick of it? Being alone all the time?" 

And sometimes, late at night, Frank wonders the same thing. He wonders why he feels so devoid of any feeling, how he can remain so calm when he aims them in his trigger sights and fires without a second thought. Sometimes it scared him — the ability to be so extremely calm and collected every time he took a life.

Yet even as his mouth opens to answer, he knows it's a futile attempt. "Not really," he decides with an ill fitting shrug of his shoulders. 

Amy lets out a low, mirthless laugh — it sounds like broken glass that catches deep in her throat, threatening to suffocate her from the inside out as she just stands there in disbelief. "We're all lonely in our own way, Frank." Her eyes flash in fiery anger. "You're bullshitting your way through if you think for one second that you aren't."

"Maybe so," Frank agrees quietly — his voice almost unrecognizable as it continues in a low, soft tone. "But speaking from experience, feelin' lonely ain't gonna change shit, kid."

Her mouth presses into a thin line — red lipstick long since faded and smudged at the corners of her mouth. "No wonder you live such a pitiful life," she remarks as her lips twist into a bitter smile. 

And then she's leaving.

He follows her movement carefully. "Amy. _Goddammit_ , wait!"

But she doesn't stop until she's out the door, leaving Frank dumbfounded as he watches her round the corner and take the stairs.

Her retreating footsteps echo numbly back to him, fading into oblivion in a matter of seconds.

The silence is deafening in his ears, and distantly, he wonders if this is what it feels like to be lonely.

*** * ***

Frank doesn't sleep.

The blankets that pool around his waist are surprisingly cold and strangely empty. It doesn't help that all he can think about is how he allowed her to walk through that door, alone. 

He's never denied being an asshole, but this is a whole new level that even Frank can't stand to tolerate.

He's already made up his mind by the time he flings on his black jacket and ties his military boots securely in a tight knot.

He's going after her.

The door closes behind with a soft click as he starts to descend down the spiral of stairs. 

Walking through those front doors have never felt better, and immediately he's greeted with the pungent musk of old cigarettes still burning red on the street corner. 

The frigid air chills his insides as he zips up his jacket, jaw set in determination as he walks — his gait so noticeably like the Punisher that it feels like the white skull is tattooed across his chest.

It doesn't take long to find her.

She's cooped up in a crappy motel off the side of the street a couple blocks down. To call it a motel would be a stretch however, considering the amount of red plastic cups that litter the hallway of the first floor alone. 

He knocks on the first door he sees.

A young woman answers, unlocking it with a slide of her hand. Her eyes widen slightly, and he hates the way she looks him up and down like a piece of meat.

"Can I help you?" She asks after a moment, eyebrow raising. 

"Yeah, uh. Did a girl happen to stop by here?" He tries to peek over the woman's shoulder. "Might've gone by the name Rachel?"

The woman hums thoughtfully, a small smile spreading across her cheeks like a cheshire cat. "Rachel? Doesn't sound familiar, sorry." She moves to close the door.

He jams his foot in the doorway.

"Listen lady," Frank states with a suppressed growl. "I just want to know what room she's in, and then I'll be out of your hair."

She laughs then — dry and mocking. "You're persistent, aren't ya?" She relents, opening the door wider to accommodate him. "Room 304, second floor, first door on your right."

"Thanks," comes his gruff response.

She shakes her head, watching him leave with cat-like eyes. "You're a sick _sick_ man," she chides.

He stiffins, stopping midway to consider putting a bullet in her head out of spite. He reconsiders that thought when he realizes he doesn't want to go through the trouble. The last thing he needs is for the cops to show up and hunt down Amy as a suspect for murder. 

So instead, he looks for Room 304.

He finds it after taking a sharp right, and it's tempting to just kick it down without a moment's hesitation. Lucky for her, he's feeling a bit gracious tonight.

He raps his knuckles against the hardwood. "Kid, you there?"

No response.

"Look, Amy," Frank starts. "God— c'mon back to the apartment. Stay here with me. I don't give a damn, just— _please_."

Still no response.

A sudden heaviness and something of cold dread settles in the pit of his stomach. It spurs him into action, and he's already slamming against the door with a forceful shove.

The door whines incessantly before giving in.

Frank stumbles ungracefully, nearly falling on his ass on the way inside.

The room is cloaked in darkness for the most part, except for a sickly yellow lamp in the corner of the room. He squints, just making out the shape of someone's body lying face down in the unmade bed.

"Shit, shit, _shit_!" Frank curses, rushing over in a frenzy as he leans over to roll her over onto her back. He scans her from head to toe, signing in relief when he sees there isn't any blood and no sign of any injury.

"Kid, can you hear me?" He asks gruffly. Hastily, his hand finds her pulse, and cold relief floods through him as he feels the steady pump of her heartbeat.

Underneath his fingers, she groans.

"Amy?" Frank repeats, firmer. 

Drearily, her eyes open. They're unfocused and definitely dilated. A lazy smile spreads across his lips, and she reaches up to tap his nose with her finger — making an audible boop noise as she does. Her eyes flicker towards the broken door. "You really mm… need to stop making this a habit," she slurs. 

"Are you—" Frank starts carefully, "drunk?" He inches closer to her, catching a whiff of something so strong that it almost knocks him flat on his ass. "Jesus, Amy."

"I… er... liked the punch," Amy replies with a goofy high pitched giggle. "They offered so…mm... I drank."

"You drank _what_ , exactly?" Frank asks apprehensively. The itch to clean out this whole motel is suddenly not such a bad idea.

Amy snickers, shrugging even though she's laying down on the bed. "M' dunno. We mixed drinks." Her expression abruptly changes, peering up at him with wide eyes as if she were a little kid in trouble. "Are you mad at me?"

And yeah, Frank was pissed. More at himself than anything for allowing this to happen on his watch. 

But the truth is... "No, Amy. I'm not."

She breathes out a sigh of relief, and Frank cringes slightly when he tastes the hint of alcohol that hits him right in the gut. 

"You're uh.. shitty liar," Amy remarks distastefully with another giggle.

Frank scoffs, but it's almost playful in the way he responds. "Come on. We're going home."

Amy lets out a noise of protest as Frank slides her off the bed — one hand under her legs and the other supporting her back as he carries her bridal style out the door. She's as light as he imagined, and Frank is left wondering how she could survive with little to no meat on her bones. 

The stairs are a bit slower, but only because Frank is worried she'll somehow slip from his grip. They ease into a steady rhythm, and he can feel her hands wrap around his neck snugly. Her breathing is even against his back, and he feels himself tightening his grip around her for comfort.

They're out the door with little strain, Frank stumbling along as he continues to carry her down the street.

Amy shifts in his arms. "Ugh, m' paid good money for that room," she mumbles in irritation. 

"Out of all the places to go, you always seem to find the shitholes," Frank replies with a grunt. 

"Not my fault," Amy says with a yawn.

"Mhm," Frank states dispassionately, but there's a small smile that grows as he glances down at her.

"How'd you … find me?"

This time, Frank lets out a low chuckle. "Slipped a tracker on your phone when you took that bus. Haven't checked it in awhile, but I guess it came in handy tonight." 

She scowls at him, eyes still hazy. He laughs in return. 

"M' hate you," Amy mutters solemnly.

"I hate me too, kid," Frank replies with a snort.

It takes them fifteen minutes to walk back to Frank's apartment, excluding the time it took to convince Amy that he wasn't stopping at a local grocery store to pick up some chocolate ice cream.

By the time he somehow manages to slide the key in and push the door open, he's exhausted. 

With little hesitation, he heads straight to his bedroom and lets her roll out of his arms with a stretch. She plops gracefully onto the mattress, fingers twirling her own hair idly as she gives him a lopsided grin.

Frank pulls the sheets up and over her. "No more sleepovers at stranger's houses, got it?" He grumbles tiredly.

"Mhmm," comes the soft response as she wiggles further under the covers.

Begrudgingly, he decides to take the couch. It's hard and solid against his back, but he's slept in worse conditions.

It's one of the first nights that he doesn't have any nightmares.

*** * ***

Frank can immediately tell he's slept in late, considering the bright blast of yellow rays that peer in through the curtains he neglected to close last night. Groggily, he rolls onto his back and winces as a sudden ache in his back flares up considerably. 

Well that's just great.

He turns his head to peer over the top of the couch, noting in amusement as he sees Amy strung across his bed, snoring away. At least one of them slept in a nice bed.

Getting up was arguably one of the hardest things Frank's ever done, ironically. He drudges up his remaining energy, slides off the couch with nothing more than a rustle, and eases his way to stand up straight as his back screams in protest. 

He hobbles his way towards the kitchen, cursing internally as realization hits him. He didn't brew any coffee.

Grumbling under his breath, he shoves the coffee beans into the machine and presses the start button with an agonized yawn. Just his luck. 

Behind him, he hears Amy shift in the sheets with a groan. Hangovers were a bitch, that's for sure.

Pity settles in his empty stomach as it growls in return, and Frank is struck with an idea.

Pancakes.

The urge to just order some from the nearest breakfast place is tempting, but Frank isn't about to waste his money on some shitty pancakes that taste like soggy dough.

If he's going to have pancakes for breakfast, he's going to make them right. And from scratch.

Ten minutes into the process, he realizes he has no goddamn flour. After all, why did he need flour in the first place? He had been perfectly content eating beans and other canned goods that were cheap and easy to make that he could take with him if needed. A soldier had no use for cooking, even though Frank knew he secretly enjoyed it. 

So guess who drives to the store to buy some _flour_? Frank _fucking_ Castle, that's who. He's making these damn pancakes even if it kills him.

He hasn't cooked in years, but using a recipe he found on Google proves to be somewhat useful.

Out of the pure goodness of his heart, he also decided that her pancakes had to have blueberries and banana on top, which proved that he really loves that kid because he ended up going _back_ to the damn store again for it.

After two burned pancakes that ended up tasting like charcoal, and one pancake that somehow ended up looking like a goddamn square, he was done.

Placing the sliced up banana and throwing some blueberries on top, he finally was allowed to say he was finished — in record time too, since his clock let out a shrill note to signal it was ten in the morning.

Sighing, he walks over to crack the bedroom door open all the way. Pure sunlight from the parallel window seeps in, illuminating everything in a golden yellow. 

Any stirs, rolling over on her side to face the opposite direction. "I feel like _shit_ ," she mutters wearily.

Going to the store to buy that stupid flour had run significantly lowered Frank's graciousness, so it's no surprise when the first thing that comes out of his mouth is: "So what did you say about not needing a babysitter?" 

"Oh shut up. I could've handled myself just as well," Amy grumbles almost incoherently under her breath. "M' fine… didn't need your help, rough road."

"Could've fooled me," Frank replies icily with a dry scoff. "Last night could've ended much differently if I hadn't found you." He feels his hand clench involuntarily as the memories come rushing back, jaw tightening in response. "No more of that shit, you understand me?"

Amy grunts in response — neither a yes or no, eyes fluttering open. Gingerly, she rubs her eyes and winces as she sits up way too fast. Her gaze snaps to the open door to the bedroom, and he can tell she's caught a whiff of what he had been making. It makes him smile in response, something of warm pride swelling in his chest.

"Pancakes?" Amy asks delicately, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"It's still warm if you hurry," Frank warns her with a childish smug grin.

In no amount of hurry, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and sits there for a good minute before deciding to stagger over. He watches her take a good long look at him, then at the plate of pancakes sitting nearly at the small circular table by the window. 

Then she smiles, and it's bright and cheerful. "Where's the whipped cream?" She asks with a curved smirk.

Frank's face falls immediately, his expression replaced with something of a blank, disapproving stare. "Shut up and eat your pancakes."

"Are these all for me?"

"Yep."

Amy shoots him a look, but it's affectionate and even thankful. Her hand finds the plastic fork, and eagerly, she shovels a large mouthful in.

Frank turns to pour her a glass of milk, setting it on the table beside the plate with an audible clink.

"Oh my god!" Amy exclaims through another mouthful. Her eyes widen, and he can't tell if she's being patronizing or not. "How are you so good at cooking?"

"Surprised?" Frank replies with a snort.

Amy nods, not even bothering to savor her next couple bites. "Why don't you cook more often?"

Frank raises an eyebrow. He'd thought the answer would be obvious. "Most of the time, I'm by myself. I don't need to cook for anyone, and honestly, I don't usually have the time."

Amy hums.

He can tell she's only half listening, her fork still greedily eating up whatever is left on the plate. He doesn't really care though, as long as she's enjoying herself.

When she's finished, she sits back in the chair with a satisfied exhale. 

"More?" Frank offers, unsure. 

"God _no_. That was perfect," she replies.

Frank grunts a thanks, and starts to pile the rest of the pancakes onto his own plate. He throws a handful of blueberries on the side, and goes to sit down beside her at the table.

He eats in silence for the most part, observing the way Amy just watches him endearingly as he finishes his breakfast with an audible clang as the fork drops onto the empty plate. 

And damn, it wasn't that bad, to be honest.

She smiles knowingly, something twinkling in her eyes. It reminds him of that mischievous look that Maria would give him in the mornings, as if she always had something planned for them the following afternoon when he was home. 

Amy blinks, and he's snapped out of his thoughts. "So, you making those pancakes — was that your way of saying I could stay?"

Frank huffs. "I guess so," he quips. 

"Great!" Amy beams, smile almost as bright as the blinding rays slipping in across the hardwood floor in uneven yellow shapes. "So, no kicking me out?" She asks hesitantly, and it's honestly a wonder how Frank doesn't catch on immediately.

"No, kid. I ain't kicking you out just so that I can save your ass again later down the line." 

Amy laughs flatly, her lips forming a thin line as if she were trying to keep a secret but failing miserably. "Good. Just wanted to be sure," she says innocently — but goddamn, it's so not innocent. "I guess this means I should tell you that I might have created a dating profile for you on Tinder and gotten a date with a blind guy who wants to meet at the coffee shop on 42nd in about thirty minutes."

Frank stares.

He's pretty sure if he were in a cartoon — like Tom and Jerry — he would be pounding her head into the opposite wall with precise comedic timing.

"So there's no need to drink the coffee you made this morning since…." She trails off to look up at him nervously.

Frank stands up abruptly, chair scuffling across the floor with a screech. 

Amy squeaks in response, mirroring his movements and flinging herself to the closest corner of the kitchen. "Hey! You said you wouldn't kick me out. _Frank_!"

"You better start explaining," Frank seethes — carefully announciating each syllable. "Why the hell am I supposed to be going on a date in thirty minutes?"

"Listen, Frank," Amy says with an uneasy smile. "Last night, I got really drunk. I was pissed at you, and with all our lonely talk, I guess I sorta..." she throws her hands up in the air dramatically. "Set you up on a date…?"

"Wait, wait," Frank shakes his head in confusion. "You said a blind guy?"

Amy gulps. "Yeah?"

"A blind guy," he says again. 

She nods slowly, still cautious. "Yeah, you see— uh. His friend was trying to set him up on a blind date because he's… well, actually blind." She swallows hard before continuing. "He thought it'd be funny if he went out on a date with someone."

"And you had to make it _me_?" Frank shoots back, eyeing her with sudden animosity.

Amy gives him the widest, most cheesiest smile. "His name is Matt Murdock. He's a lawyer, and likes the color red — in the figurative sense."

He blinks slowly before sinking down into his chair, hand rubbing at his temple. "Goddammit."

"Just go," Amy actually whines. "You might even enjoy yourself — not that you would know how that feels." 

"I'm not going on a date."

"Frank—"

" _No_ , Amy!"

"Well, what do you want me to tell him?" She complains, and has the balls to actually sound exasperated with him. "You can't just stand the guy up! He's blind!"

"Tell him—" he stops, huffing in frustration. "Tell him that it was all a misunderstanding!"

Amy gives him a look.

Frank curses in annoyance. 

"Give it a chance," Amy replies in a softer tone. "You know, there's more to life than going after all the creepos in the city. Maybe you should actually get out there and act somewhat normal," she tries with a shrug.

And well, going on an actual date with no idea what the other guy looked like did sound sorta thrilling, but he wasn't a teenager pining for a happily ever after. Never had been. And really, the last thing he needed was to get involved with someone else only to screw things over later down the line.

Yet...

"If I do this—" Frank says carefully, still unsure whether or not to strangle her yet. "We're laying down ground rules," he states firmly with a low growl. 

Amy nods gingerly.

"Number one: you let me know when and where you're going out, for any reason." 

He watches her closely, only continuing when she lets him know she understands. 

"Number two: no interfering with any jobs I go on. If I don't come home or call, you assume that I'm dead and you get the hell out before they come to my apartment to search it."

Amy's mouth forms a thin line, but she gives him another slight nod.

This one was obvious. "Number three: no more signing me up for any dates, you got that?"

She sighs. "Yeah, whatever."

He looks at her square in the eye. "I mean it, Amy."

"No more dates. I promise," she reiterates with a wave of her hand.

"Good," he replies evenly. "Glad we understand each other." Then, he's walking into his bedroom to rummage through his closet.

"Try to wear something decent for once!" Amy calls from the other room, and a spike of irritation makes his teeth grit together.

"He's _blind_ , Amy!" 

"So what? I've gotta see you come in and out all the time. Might as well indulge me!"

Frank grumbles incoherent sentences, swiping through the hangers to find something that isn't plain black. He decides to settle for the vibrant shade of a deep violet dress shirt that David had gotten him for Christmas. God, if only he could see him wear it now.

He decides to skip the grey dress slacks, and instead just go for plain blue jeans and his military boots. He's not sure what Amy told this guy anyway, and he's not looking to wear goofy looking outfits for a literal blind date.

When he's done, he closes the door behind him, turning slowly so that Amy can catch a glimpse. "You happy?" He says gruffly.

"A little," Amy replies with a crooked, almost inquisitive smile. "Where's your tie?"

"Oh piss off."

Amy gives him a sly wink. "I ordered a taxi for you. They're outside, waiting." She watches him, expression suddenly hardening as he just stands there. "Don't be late!"

Frank lets out a heavy sigh, doesn't bother asking where she got the money, and walks towards the front door.

"Try to keep the place all in one piece, huh," he grouses with a snort as he yanks it open.

"Go get laid!" Amy yells at him as he slips through the door and into the warm, brisk morning.

The taxi ride there takes around ten minutes tops, and honestly, Frank wishes it had taken longer. Something uneasy coils in his gut, and he refuses to admit that he was nervous going on this stupid date. He wasn't a school kid prancing around the playground, being pressured to admit to his crush that he liked them. He was a full grown adult who killed people for Christ's sake.

To be honest, Frank had forgotten what it was like to go on a date with someone. And with men? Well, it was complicated.

But most of all, he realizes that he's scared. 

After Maria, he's still not sure that he's moved on. After all, he hasn't really been actively trying to pursue anyone in his love life. Sure, some women here and there caught his attention down the road, but they always were put in jeopardy — so obviously, that was out of the question. There was a thin line separating Frank Castle and the Punisher, and very few seemed to understand that. 

So Frank had decided he was perfectly content being alone. That didn't mean he didn't ever wonder, but that's just how it went.

Besides, it was only one date after all, right?

The taxi driver coughs suddenly, loud and obnoxious. 

Frank offers him an apologetic smile, reaching into the pocket of his shirt for the neatly folded bills. "Keep the change," he informs him as he opens the door — closing it with an audible click on his way out.

And so he walks along the grey pavement, eyes up and focused.

The coffee shop, warmly known as 'Cup O' Expresso', is on the corner of the street. It's decorated with large lamp posts mirroring on each side of the front door, faerie lights strung up as high as they could go across the front of the building. It's quite a spectacle, and Frank is curious as to how he's never heard of this place before.

The cool metal of the handle as he pulls it open is refreshing to the touch, and immediately he's greeted with the ambrosial aroma of fresh brewed coffee and the sweetness of all the treats stashed in the display counters across the way.

Black and white marbled counters circle around the shop, with dark red and white striped booths mirroring them on the opposite side of the painted tile walls. Large paintings of aesthetically pleasing coffee related pictures are spread evenly across each corresponding section — and distantly, Frank wonders if Amy picked this spot for a particular reason. 

He decides to sit down at the farthest stool from the entrance, his hand brushing through his hair nervously.

There's a quiet tapping — something making contact with the tiled floor, that peaks his interest. The sound seems to only increase, until it stops completely behind him. 

Frank half turns on the stool, ready to tell some asshole to find another seat because this one is taken but —

"Mr. Castle?"

The insult dies in his throat, and he swallows hard as he shamelessly just stares at the man in front of him.

He's wearing a very nice dress suit with grey lapels and a navy blue tie, cane clutched in his right hand. Red tinted glasses seem to stare back at him with an equal amount of shame, and he's _pretty_ sure that it isn't the reflection from the lights that is casting a faint redness that spreads across the man's cheeks.

And _goddamn_ , he's easy on the eyes.

Handsomely combed dark brown locks, brushed to the side and over. Light stubble decorating his chin, with full pink lips and a perfect crescent bow to top it all off. If he hadn't been informed about Murdock's disability, it would never have occured to him that a blind man could be so...

The man raises an eyebrow inquisitively, as if reading exactly what was written over Frank's face. 

Hurriedly, he tries to rectify his mistake. "Murdock, I assume?" Frank manages, his voice wavering ever so slightly. 

"Yeah," Murdock confirms with a faint smile. He makes a questioning movement with his head, signaling to the stool beside Frank.

"All yours," Frank states casually. 

Murdock sits besides him, and for a moment, all Frank can think is _what the actual hell_? Then he shifts in his seat, and Frank can see that he's holding a coffee cup in his left hand that is now being extended towards him.

"I heard you like black coffee the best," Murdock says almost comically — his lips tugging upwards into a sharp grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not supposed to be as long as it was... I'm really getting carried away, but who cares! You guys seem to be enjoying it so... :' D
> 
> Finally, some Matt and Frank interaction. I know it's been long awaited.
> 
> As a reminder, this is a Season 2 rewrite of Daredevil. I'm hoping that I'll be able to incorporate some aspects of the canon season 2 events and tie them into here and putting my own spin on it. How long will this story be? I sure as hell don't know!


	3. Funnin' Gunnin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Frank enjoy each other's company — for the most part. That is, until Matt realizes that maybe this Castle guy isn't as normal as he initially thought. An unexpected fire fight leaves Matt hurt.

Foggy always teased Matt about knowing when someone was hot, but honest to God, he didn't exactly know how it worked. It's not like he could really _see_ , after all.

But the man sitting beside him is most definitely the literal epiphany of tall, dark and handsome — not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

Maybe he has a sixth sense, or Matt is just perceptive in his own way. It's the little things, like the way Frank's hand combs through his hair and his breathing — which is considerably heavier but steady, indicating deep powerful lungs. It's also the way he realizes just how alert Frank is, always on his toes in case something goes awry. Definitely an ex-military man if he's ever seen one. 

Once Matt had walked through those doors, he knew anything could happen. And by anything, and all the possibilities in the world — he never thought that the guy who accepted to go on a blind date with him was so _normal_ , and not in a bad way.

Matt couldn't lie to himself. He gravitated towards danger, and danger came back to bite him in the ass later. It was a constant cycle that never ended.

Yet the man beside him radiated a sense of normality. He seemed calm, even introverted in a way that borderlines charming. Somewhere, Matt found it a bit reassuring. 

"Thank you," Frank says after a second, uncertainty lacing his tone. His hand brushes against Matt's knuckles as he takes the coffee, and they're incredibly warm despite the freezing temperature outside.

"You're welcome," Matt replies with another friendly smile, resting his cane against the edge of the counter. 

He hears Frank sip the beverage slowly — knows that the coffee is the perfect temperature to drink where it's not too hot and not cold. It helps him to focus and ignore the constant drumming of footsteps coming in and out of the shop.

They sit there in silence for several minutes, Matt deciding to stare blankly ahead as he listens to Frank's steady heartbeat just out of curiosity. He knows immediately when Frank has something to say, evident by the slight increase in the rhythm and the way his breath catches nervously.

"This place is nice, y'know?" Frank starts with a small shrug. "Little bid odd that you would agree to meet me here, considering you can't really see all this shit." And his tone isn't necessarily accusatory, but it's a fair question — not that Matt thought he would lead with such a blunt conversation to start the morning off with.

Pleasantries were overrated anyways.

"I like the smell," Matt decides to say with a slight head tilt, and it's not a lie. You couldn't go wrong with the heavy fragrance of coffee beans and eccentric sweets underneath the thousands of smells people brought in with them. "Besides," he adds curtly. "I like to try and accommodate the people I'm with."

There's no reply, not even a hint of acknowledgement as Frank returns to his coffee quietly, taking a large swallow as he remains expressionless as ever.

It's infuriating that Matt can't read him.

He estimates that Frank is nearly done with his first cup as the air that circulates around his hand abruptly changes pattern — it feels lighter, and even sounds lighter in Frank's hand. Nothing is really sloshing, nor is Frank being careful with his movements as he brings it to his lips almost carelessly. 

Everytime he exhales, Matt can smell the thick pungent odor of the pure black coffee that coats his tongue and lips, bitter but warm. It's mildly distracting.

"So you're blind, huh," Frank finally says after a beat. It's not a question, but more of an obvious statement. 

Behind his glasses, Matt blinks just out of instinctual surprise. Sure, he's dealt with his fair share of people being dicks, but why does it always seem to come back to his blindness?

"Yeah," Matt replies evenly, his lips forming a thin line. "Have been since I was nine."

He can hear Frank shift in his seat — can tell that he's intrigued and a bit uncertain about where exactly this conversation is going. He must be looking at Matt and the way his body has stiffened automatically, because something in his expression softens; it's a nice change of scenery.

Apologetically, Frank lifts the coffee cup to his lips as if he's giving a toast. "Sorry 'bout that," he says gruffly with a slight nod, and underneath it all, sounds genuine.

"Don't be," Matt responds in kind, a dry smirk creeping at the corners of his mouth. The statement is already dancing on his tongue by the time he says it. "There are other ways to see."

Frank huffs, either out of amusement or disbelief. 

"Don't believe me?" Matt questions — no, _teases_. He lifts an eyebrow in response, and lets his glasses purposefully slip so that Frank can see the hazel eyes that lie underneath, staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Frank snorts and looks away. "Just find it hard to believe that a blind man managed to find a date with me on Tinder," he says honestly with no inflection. 

There's no reason to lie. "I had help," Matt admits with a sheepish quirk of his lips — in amusement, more than anything. 

"So I heard," Frank quips and looks like he's imagining the scenario in his head as the corners of his mouth lift upwards. "You got good friends, Murdock?" He asks, genuine curiosity layering his tone.

Matt hums, and it's low and almost embarrassed. "The best," he agrees adamantly, despite the fact that he's still contemplating whether or not to strangle Foggy when he gets home. 

There's a moment where Frank pauses, heartbeat increasing the tiniest of a fraction as he hesitantly glances up at him; then, aims his sights down at the marbled counter that's steady but unfamiliar under his elbows. 

"So," Frank starts, as if reading his mind. He finishes the rest of his coffee like a shot, tipping it back in one go and relishing in it. "Your friend make you go on this date?"

The question bounces back and forth in his head. Did Foggy really make him go on this date? Maybe it's his Catholicism talking, but Matt's pretty sure that whatever he signed up for — he signed up willingly. That's on him.

So decidedly, he compromises with himself. "Something like that," Matt muses with a puff of hot air. "He wasn't satisfied with my love life — or lack thereof, so he chose to take action," he continues tersely with a relaxed shrug. "Guess I can't blame him." 

Frank laughs, but it lands flat and resembles more of a grating scoff than anything. "Yeah, people love to do that. Don't they?" And there's a note of irritation in Frank's voice that cuts through the air like a knife. "Always gotta get involved in other people's shit — don't matter if you ask them not to."

And while Matt Murdock is not supposed to be as receptive as the Devil, he can't help but wonder. "Sounds like the feeling is familiar," he says and tries to formulate it as a question rather than an absolute statement.

He laughs again, and Matt is distantly aware as to how deep and low his baritone voice is compared to the dry, slightly raised chuckle. Absent-mindedly, Frank fiddles with the lid to the top of his cup. "Yeah. Sure as hell is."

"Something you want to talk about?" Matt offers out of consideration, sensing the sore spot immediately with a wry smirk.

"Well if I'm confessing my sins, _Father_ ," Frank says languishly, shifting over to look at Matt in mock adoration. "Let's say that kids never know where to draw the line," he grumbles tiredly.

"Oh." Matt can feel a muscle in his jaw twitch involuntarily, out of surprise more than anything. "You have family?"

He hears Frank swallow, the thudding of his heartbeat suddenly droning on and on like a broken record. The rhythm doesn't change, but it almost sounds as if his heart is pounding so much louder and prominently — drowning out any and all of Matt's senses, and clouding his thoughts in a hazy pattern of _da-da-dum_.

Then, it stops. It's like white noise that screams nothing in his ears.

Frank's hand tightens around the cup, and it's only then that Matt hears the plastic bend in his grip. 

"No."

Matt turns his head in Frank's direction.

"Don't have family," Frank clarifies — voice sounding strained and abruptly distant. "Just babysitting."

"Ah," Matt hums and gives a slight nod. "It's hard work — taking care of a kid."

Frank snorts, and decides to clarify even further. "She's eighteen. Stubborn as a _goddamn_ mule, bossy, arrogant—"

And Matt has seen all the signs before, and it's clear that despite Frank's complaining, he _cares_. 

"But you love her anyways," Matt interjects gently and feels something violently twist in his chest. "You would do anything for her." 

He feels Frank's eyes on him, watching him — studying him as if he was a display at a museum. His gaze rakes across Matt's face, which is relaxed and extremely calm as he awaits his response.

"Yeah," Frank grunts and it's the usual gruff tone he's been hearing for the past couple minutes. "Yeah, I'd do anything for that kid," he confirms, heartbeat steady.

Matt lets out a breathless laugh that's shaky and unbalanced. He knows the feeling. "The things we'd do for the people we love," he says candidly as visions of Foggy and Karen flash through his head like a slideshow.

Frank chimes in with him, a dry disapproving laugh that stops mid-way in his throat. "We're suckers, aren't we, Murdock?"

"Probably," he ends up agreeing with an amused shrug. "An old man once told me that caring about people isn't an advantage. He said that attachments are a weakness."

"Sounds like a dick," Frank says with a raise of his eyebrow and blunt honesty that goes right for the jugular.

And Frank wasn't wrong.

"He definitely had his fair share of being an asshole," Matt informs him with a tight lipped smile that radiates distant regret. 

Frank nods, as if the feeling was mutual. His lips almost copy Matt's own smile, but it's almost rougher and has an edge to it. "Yeah, well," he says rather casually. "World's gone to shit as far as I'm concerned."

Matt can't argue with that.

They sit there for a moment, listening to the customers come and go. A small bell indicates whenever someone enters — a sharp chime, like a drawn out whistle — and Matt counts three more rings that echo in his ears like a common symphony. 

Several more people filter in like clockwork, sitting down three seats down from them. All men. Hearts elevated slightly. 

He feels their gaze sweep over him, like dirty fingerprints smudging all over a glass window. His first reaction is normal — as a blind man, he knows many people are automatically drawn to look at him more out of curiosity than anything, but there's something not quite right with the way they're doing it. It's like they're purposefully looking for an opportunity, waiting patiently for something.

"How may I serve you gentlemen today?" Matt hears a waitress say, her tone muffled as he focuses on their uneven breathing patterns. 

"We're good, thanks," comes the curt reply from the man sitting in the middle. Embarrassed, the waitress combs a hand through her hair and nods in understanding before turning away to serve another customer down the row. 

Red flag.

Cautiously, he tries to listen further for the subtle clicks and the shift of fabric concealing any weapons. The last thing he needs is for some gunfight to erupt while he's stuck as Matt Murdock in a coffee shop.

"Lawyer, huh?" Frank's voice rings out abruptly, disrupting his thoughts and causing Matt to snap back to the present. Honestly, it was surprising he didn't get metaphorical whiplash from doing that.

He looks up, angles his head towards the direction of the gravelly voice and blinks as the question registers. People didn't usually find much interest in his career. "Yeah," he says with a nod. "Nelson and Murdock."

"Hm," Frank hums on an exhale, breath still alarmingly hot from his coffee. "You like it? Your job?" 

Matt lets a crooked smile appear, painting his face with a bright expression that seemingly illuminates the whole room in bleak satisfaction. "Someone has to defend the innocent, after all." He shifts in his seat, feels the padded cushioning rise in response as he adds quietly, "Someone needs to give them a voice."

Frank's mouth tightens into a look of cold pessimism. 

"Murdock," he addresses him almost impassionately and out of the blue. "You ever wonder what the world would look like without all the rapists and murderers running around?" There's an edge in his voice, a warning to tread lightly.

Matt ignores it, of course.

"Of course. I'd be out of a job for one," he tries for the lighter approach and knows almost instantaneously that it was probably the worst thing he could have said.

Frank's whole body stiffens up, and he resembles more like a wooden board than anything. "Seriously, Murdock. You ever even thought 'bout that? Never crossed your mind before, huh."

"I —" he starts, mouth forming a small frown. "I guess not," he admits tautly.

And truthfully, Matt hadn't for a long time. There was absolutely no way that would ever happen, and he had learned that the hard way when Ms. Cardenas was killed. He'd given up that fight a long time ago, and decided to give the vigilante hobby a go — great job on his part, he thinks ironically. As Frank said, the world had gone to complete and utter shit. Matt didn't disagree, and while he shared Frank's enthusiasm about needing change, he wasn't so sure exactly about how he wanted to go about it.

"You know I was an ex-military man," Frank continues, tone thick with unresolved accusations. "I killed people. That's what you do in war, Murdock. I killed bad people to protect my country."

"What exactly are you saying?" Matt says gingerly, despite knowing exactly where this conversation was heading.

"I'm sayin' that sometimes the only way to protect people you care about — to protect a city, is to get rid of the problem permanently."

Matt opens his mouth when Frank interrupts, plowing right through him and continuing his monologue.

"You see, Murdock. You people fight with your words, and I ain't got nothing against that. But from experience?" Frank states with cold reassurance — which isn't really assurance at all. "A bullet in a gun is _much_ more efficient, and faster."

"Frank." He pauses, listens to the labored breathing for a minute before continuing. "That's not up to you or me."

"Bullshit," Frank says with no heat. "Someone needs to put down all the goddamn scum that runs amok in the streets," he finishes with a low predatory growl. 

"That's up to the law and police force," Matt informs him through forced teeth. 

Frank snorts, shakes his head twice and sighs through flaring nostrils. "Sorry to break it to you, Murdock, but the law and police ain't gonna do shit." 

"It's their _job_ ," Matt says, deflecting. "They've trained for it most of their lives, Frank." 

Frank laughs hollowly. "Yet I still see criminals roaming 'round the streets, set loose by lawyers like you."

Something in his chest tightens uncontrollably, and for the first time, he feels red hot anger flare up deep in his throat. Who is this guy to judge him when he knows nothing about his life and what he's done? He swallows it down, sets his jaw in defiance and deliberately turns away out of spite.

The men sitting three seats down are standing up now — talking amongst each other. He can't make out much, mostly because of the annoying anger still simmering in his stomach like a heavy anchor. 

Frank shifts next to him, probably expecting some kind of response in return. Well, tough luck.

The men glance over at them. Each heartbeat spiking with adrenaline. He can't do this here.

"Frank —" he says carefully. "I have to go." 

Even though he can't see Frank's expression, he hears the soft exhalation and recognizes it as distant regret. His fingers drum against the counter softly before he finally speaks.

"At least let me walk you out," Frank says at last.

"No, Frank, listen —"

"Murdock," Frank prods gently. "Matt," he corrects himself, and watches as Matt's eyebrow raises in surprise. The name sounds so foreign on his tongue. "Just let me walk you out, 'kay?"

His lips form a thin line, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he reaches for his cane and fumbles with it a minute before extending it with a click. He fumbles — on purpose — before Frank's hand is warm on his arm, searing their bodies together with an electric jolt that makes his own heart skip a beat.

"Thank you," Matt says after a second to which Frank grunts in return, throwing his empty coffee cup into the bin beside them.

They start to walk steadily towards the door, passing by the three men with no more than a quiet shuffle. He can tell they're staring, wary and waiting for their opportunity.

Well, Matt wouldn't deny them it.

The bell lets out a sharp ring, and then they're out the door and into the frigid afternoon. 

They make it about a block before Matt finally speaks, lips trembling slightly as the brisk air brushes against them with a chilly kiss. "I'm sorry. We were on a date, I mean — I should've —"

It all happens too fast. One moment he's walking down the street with Frank, and the next, there's a calloused hand fisted tightly around his tie, yanking him sharply right into a nearby alleyway with little hesitation. His cane, long forgotten, falls to the pavement with a resounding clatter.

The grip is iron-clad, calculated and rough. Matt's so disoriented that it takes him a moment to even process what had happened, but he's _pretty_ sure that the hand coiled around his tie is an indication of his lack of awareness. Internally, he curses himself for being so stupid.

Hot, warm coffee breath is suddenly stroking his cheek; black coffee so prominent that it fills his nostrils. The heartbeat that had once been steady and reassuringly calm, now pumping an accelerated rhythm at a super soldier speed.

Frank.

"Alright, Murdock," Frank hisses close to his ear, sounding exasperated and even a little hurt. "Who the hell sent you, huh? I want a goddamn name, now." It's accompanied by a sharp tug on his tie again, this time making Matt stumble forward from the sheer force — half choking our syllables that are incoherent.

Frank eases his grip but only slightly.

"What the hell, Frank!" Matt manages after a breath, voice hoarse from having his throat constricted. He knew he shouldn't of worn the stupid tie today. " _Jesus_ ," Matt gasps when he's allowed another breath. "No one sent me, dammit."

"You're lying," Frank seethes in cold fury, teeth grinding together as he stands there and stares at him in disbelief. "You think I didn't notice that truck that circled the coffee shop four times?" He laughs, low and sharp. "I'm not that goddamn stupid, Matt. You sure that's even your name?" 

"Yes," Matt grits out in frustration, resisting the urge to fight back or do something. "I don't know what you're talking about, Frank. Hate to break it to you buddy, but you'll have to be a bit more _specific_ about this truck," he articulates slowly, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Frank huffs, and immediately Matt can tell that he doesn't buy the whole blindness thing. "Silver truck, stickers, accessories littering the side like some barbie doll. You couldn't miss it even if you _were_ blind," he concludes with a snort. 

Matt actually groans.

"Start talking, Murdock," Frank warns him with another yank. "And don't bullshit me."

Matt forces himself to relax, taking a deep breath that doesn't quite full his lungs as he weighs the gravity of the situation. "It's not what you think, Frank. That truck, it's —" and he wasn't giving up Foggy's name to this _psychopath_ , "my friend's."

He doesn't exactly realize how vague and ill-fitting that sounds until Frank nods, but it's mocking and demeaning because suddenly, he's yanked further into the alleyway until he's slammed against the dumpster at the end of it. His back collides with a _clang_ , glass bottles and soda cans ringing back in response. 

He can't believe that he thought this guy was normal. Really, when was he ever going to catch a break?

Frank shifts, and Matt can feel him reach for something in his pants. His grip on his tie, however, remains immovable and steady as ever. There's no use in trying to get away from him, especially since he's not exactly in the right attire to fight. While Matt is intrigued about Frank's military background, he sure as hell doesn't want to be on the receiving end of it.

It takes a minute, but there's a heavy acrid smell in the air that fills his nose with nostalgia — but Matt still can't exactly place it. That is, until he feels the cold, unforgiving barrel of a pistol being shoved underneath his chin and into the soft muscles of his throat. He instantly finds himself ten times more alert than usual, chin up, and body stiffening automatically as Frank follows his movement with nothing more than cold regard. How the hell had he managed to hide that from Matt's senses?

"Try again," Frank says with a deceivingly devilish smile. "This time, be more _specific_." 

"My friend," Matt specifies, the barrel of the gun shifting uncomfortably against his jaw with each word. "The one who set me up on this blind date with you," he divulges with a neutral expression. "He's probably watching me because he's a nosy bastard who _loves_ getting involved with my crappy love life," he continues, almost hoping that Foggy is somewhere near to witness it.

Frank stares at him, body unreadable. The gun remains where it is, jammed up close and personal. His finger comfortably resting on the trigger, the drumming of his heart steady with certainty.

Finally, he speaks. "You're a shitty liar, _Matthew_."

The air tastes sharper on his tongue, and distantly, he's aware of the pounding of his own heartbeat droning on and on in his ears. Being threatened wasn't unfamiliar in Matt's line of work, but the fact that he's here, at gunpoint, while on a date with the very person who he was supposed to be on a date _with_ is a new situation altogether.

If he dies here, he promises he's going to be haunting Foggy's ass for a long long time. 

He waits for the inevitable shot, anticipates for the burst of warmth from the barrel before his brains paint the brick wall with a splatter of red.

And nothing. 

He counts thirty seconds in his head, each second synchronizing with each beat of his weary heart. Finally, he lets out a slow stream of air through his nose — hears Frank lean in close, the fabric of his shirt sliding across Matt's skin as he moves.

He feels a sudden warmth, is certain it's the gun this time — finally firing and ending it all. 

But it's not.

Frank is gentle, even tender with his movements as he reaches up towards Matt's face while he just stares, dumbfounded. His tie drops from Frank's hand, not that it matters anymore.

Predictably, the gun doesn't lower any — Matt's learned to never hold out too much hope when it comes to strangers holding his life in their hands — as Frank delicately plucks the stem of his glasses between his thumb and pointer finger, pulling down in one smooth motion. The glasses slip off the bridge of his nose with little help like the traitors they are, and are folded neatly with a familiar click. Discreetly, they slide into his front pocket with nothing more than a quiet rustle of fabric.

Matt arguably feels more naked than if he had torn off all his clothes and ran down the opposite street.

He decides to stare off a little to the left, feels the intensity and echoing heat that Frank had left behind, before parting his lips so that he can run his tongue along the chapped, uneven skin that is screaming for some kind of moisture. 

"You're —" Frank stops, half chokes on the sentence as he lets out a sharp exhale that blows hot air against Matt's cheek. "You're _really_ blind."

"Yeah," Matt replies once he can find his voice. He gives Frank a tired smile, doesn't bother hiding all the emotions that are probably spread out for him to easily see. "I wasn't lying to you, Frank."

"Goddammit," Frank curses. "Just my fuckin' luck."

"You got something against blind men, Castle?" Matt jives in response, eyeing Frank with something of mocking incredulity. 

"Only when they invite me on a blind date, only to argue with me about my moral code and then give me shitty excuses to important questions," Frank retorts assuredly with a snort.

Matt returns it with his own bitter scoff. "I just think someone's trigger happy," he points out with no remorse — not even his Catholic guilt says anything about that quip.

"Remember who has the gun, Murdock," Frank reminds him with no amount of fondness. "Just 'cause you're actually blind, doesn't mean I still won't shoot you if I have to." To prove his point, he prods the gun further under his chin, and Matt is really starting to think he's getting off on this.

"What do you think I could do to you?" Matt replies, even though he wants nothing more than to kick Frank's ass just to prove a point. God, if only he had the suit with him. 

Even Frank hesitates this time.

" _What_? You're afraid I'm going to hit you with my cane?" He ridicules at the thought, his expression hardening. "Please, Frank. If anyone's bullshitting anyone, it's you."

"Throughout my life, I've learned to be extremely cautious around people I've just met," Frank informs him with a furtive smile. 

"Usually that's something you'd say before holding your supposed date at gunpoint after they got you coffee," comes Matt's flippant response, followed by him wiggling slightly to the side, attempting to at least put some space between him and the gun jammed up his throat.

Frank follows his movement almost lazily with a jaded expression plastered across his face, as if he were bored. "When I see a car that circles four times around a goddamn coffee shop, it means there ain't nothing but trouble coming my way. I've seen it before, and oftentimes it leads to people being gunned down without care or remorse," he states evenly.

"I told _you_ ," Matt emphasizes, desperation lining the edges of his voice as the gun trails his every action. "It's my friend. He's not some serial killer or maniac — just a sadistic bastard who wanted to spy on us during our coffee date." He can still feel Frank's apparent skepticism, so he sighs and gestures lazily to his jacket pocket. "I can call him if you want."

Frank shakes his head. "Just hand 'er over. I'll deal with it," he decides with a grunt. 

"Okay," Matt says reluctantly. Slowly, he reaches inside his jacket pocket, fumbling for a moment, before bringing out his cellphone and handing it to Frank with increasing apprehension. 

He doesn't realize his mistake until Frank's gruff voice asks, "name?"

Matt falters for a moment, Foggy's name weighing heavily on the tip of his tongue.

Frank sighs deeply but not out of impatience. "Look, Murdock. I'm not a psychopath hell-bent on a war path. I'm not going to go after your friend." 

Matt raises an eyebrow at that.

To ease Matt's distress, he lowers the gun begrudgingly, but only slightly. "You have my word," he says finally.

There's no jump in his heartbeat, nothing to indicate any sort of lie. Usually, Matt would take comfort in that — but truthfully, he doesn't trust his own senses right now. 

The only other option is to trust Frank.

Honestly as the word "Foggy" leaves his lips, he truly wonders if Frank himself has some kind of superpower with the way it rolls off his tongue with no hesitation. Crescendoing guilt settles deep in the back of his throat, and he can't help but feel like he's betrayed his lifelong friend for the guy he met an hour ago. It doesn't make it any easier when Frank outright laughs — scathing and patronizing. 

" _Foggy_?" Frank echoes back warily, yet still sounds insincere as he goes to flip through Matt's contacts.

"Yes," Matt snaps out of irritation. "His name is Foggy."

Frank gives him a doubtful look, but his expression changes to bewilderment as the name Foggy appears as one of Matt's most frequent callers. He hesitates for a split second — Matt thinks maybe he's finally seeing sense — before he's dialing the number, the ringtone a series of flat notes that Matt knows he has to change when he gets home. 

It's no surprise to Matt when Foggy picks up almost instantly, his statically charged voice picking up on the other end.

" _Hey, Matt!_ " 

And even though Matt isn't even with Foggy, he can taste the beaming smile that shines through.

"Yeah, uh — this Foggy?" Frank asks point blank, staring off to the side for concentration. It's not like Matt's going anywhere.

There's a short pause. " _Yeah_ ," comes the puzzled response. " _Is Matt there?_ " And there's a hint of suspicion that layers his tone this time, and for good reason.

The phone is suddenly shoved in front of his face. "Say hi," Frank states, impossibly neutral, even though Matt swears he sees the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Just out of spite, he makes them both wait a couple seconds before responding. "Hey, Fogs."

" _Everything okay, Matt?_ " comes the immediate response, this time, slightly raised tone to indicate worry.

"Right as rain on a chilly morning," Matt affirms with absolute certainty, even as his throat constricts against the unforgiving barrel of the gun — a dull reminder of the predicament he's in.

Frank yanks the phone back, and shoots Matt a look before continuing on. "So Foggy, you own a silver truck with stickers?"

" _Yep!_ " Foggy replies, pride swelling in his tone.

"Mind tellin' me why I saw that truck circle four times 'round the block?" Frank inquires, his own tone honeyed with fake politeness and his restraint from deciding whether or not to put a bullet in both their heads. 

" _Well_ ," Foggy starts off. " _I wanted to see how the date was going_ ," he admits sheepishly. " _I knew Matt was going to be boringly vague about what happened, so I thought that spying on him would give me the best information of how to proceed…_ "

"Proceed?" Frank repeats, pondering the thought.

" _Yeah, like_ —" and Foggy's voice becomes much heavier, almost mimicking Frank's infuriating gruffness. " _Giving me enough info to decide whether or not I need to kick this guy's ass or something_ ," he finishes snidely. 

It's the first time that Matt feels Frank smile, sharp toothed and almost a maniacal grin that threatens to swallow them both up. 

"I like _you_ , Foggy," Frank says with a sprinkle of affection hidden there, as if they were old pals. "Maybe we'll get to meet someday, and you can get a shot at making your wish come true."

Foggy's voice pitches louder than ever into the speaker. " _Alright — let him go, you asshole. I'm not sure exactly who you think you are, but I will find_ —"

Frank ends the call, leaving Matt and him with the city's loud and boisterous noises. 

When Frank makes no move to lower the gun entirely, Matt lets out a genuine sigh that ends up clouding his glasses with condensation — he doesn't care. "That's twice I haven't lied to you, Frank. Can you at _least_ remove the gun?" He asks as nicely as heavenly possible.

Frank snorts in hilarity. "No," he says simply.

The bastard is baiting him. 

Matt actually growls, low and exasperated as it catches in the back of his throat. He probably poses the same threat as a kitten, but it makes him feel a tiny bit better. "What the hell do you want from me, Frank?" He spits out, discomfort lining every inch of his body as he sags underneath the piece of metal still wedged charmingly against his adam's apple.

Frank doesn't deem him an answer; instead, returning his own growl that's guttural and equally as exasperated. "'Right as rain on a chilly morning?'" he quotes mockingly, disappointment radiating off him in waves. " _Jesus_ , Murdock. You're lucky I didn't just shoot you right then and there."

And yeah, maybe Matt and Foggy's codeword to alert each other in case they were in danger wasn't the subtlest of phrases for at least half competent people, but it had worked, hadn't it?

He sets his jaw in determination, works "piss off" through clenched teeth, then curses himself for agreeing to go this stupid date in the first place.

"Don't make me go back on my word," Frank says with the coldness of a determined blizzard, each word spiking Matt with metaphorical pinpricks that send chills down his body.

A witty reply is stupid, but Matt is too far to care. He opens his mouth, ready to deliver a bone crushing insult that even an ex-military man couldn't handle — but stops, the slander locked in his throat.

He hears them.

The three men — dress shoes hurriedly click-clacking across the unkempt pavement — are about six feet away, and he's sure that the objects weighing in their hands aren't gift baskets.

"Frank —" he half manages, pushing gently against him to urge him to move back. "There's —"

They're turning right into their alleyway, two steps away. Weapons raised, pulse steady in triumph. Moving as a team.

It gives him an excuse to move. 

He judges the distance accordingly, notes exactly where the weakest point is on Frank's wrist, and _jabs_ as hard as he can into the soft skin to get the gun away from any vital areas before it fires.

Frank yells, fingers slipping on his pistol for a moment before red hot pain slices across the top of Matt's shoulder — the culprit burying itself into the brick wall behind him with a crack. Gunpowder and an overwhelming heat still spilling from the guns lips, coating his tongue in bitter resentment as his shoulder groans in response.

The men are rounding the corner now, predatory smirks only serving to try and intimidate them. The two flanking the man in the middle raise their guns, while the ring-leader speaks quietly to the man on his left.

"Kill the blind guy. Boss wants that one alive though."

Oh, great.

There's no time for Matt to try again and wrangle the gun out of Frank's hand, so instead, he prays — begs, that this is not the way he dies as he jumps into Frank, bodies crashing together as he lands on top to shield as much of Frank's body as possible.

Call it foolish, call it irrational, but Matt was not about to let his death be at the hands of this psycho underneath him. If he was to die, at least he would die somewhat honorably — even if it meant saving the very man who almost killed him.

He feels Frank shift under him — the muzzle of the gun pointing dangerously over his heart — and waits to feel the inevitable flare of pain before darkness.

Two shots ring out, whizz past Matt's ears as they lovingly miss. The adrenaline is pumping now, so much so, that it has the complete opposite effect on him. His movements are sluggish, and he feels tipsy — like he's drank a bottle at Josie's.

The body underneath him grunts out several string of curses, and Matt is strangely aware that he's actually no longer on top. He's being rolled over, shoved against the graffitied wall behind the side of the dumpster while Frank crouches beside him, gun already cocked and pulsing in his hand.

"You _idiot_ ," Frank hisses under his breath, reaching out around to pull something out of Matt's neck. A dart, it seems, as it drops to the pavement with a metallic click. He can smell the pungent bitterness that coats the end of the tip.

He wants to laugh at his predicament.

Matt gives him a giddy grin, knows that something isn't quite right — but smiles wide anyways at the mention of him being called an idiot. He wasn't wrong.

"That was a crazy, _stupid_ stunt, Murdock." Frank breathes, opening the chamber to his gun to check how much ammo he has. Judging by the way Frank grunts in approval, Matt guesses he has enough.

"Go get 'em tiger," Matt says with a rueful snicker, fully aware that somewhere, he was encouraging the very thing he was adamantly against.

He blames the damn drugs.

Frank's breath is hot on Matt's cheek again, stroking the skin there with a tenderness that could only be described as caring and attentive.

Then, it's gone. Replaced with the everlasting crisp chilliness of the frosty air. 

Somewhere in his drugged state, he hears footsteps — recognizes the brutality and gait of each step, the sheet power that Frank holds over him and every single other man in the alley. He almost looks murderous under the soft rays of the gentle sun, breath labored, teeth grinding as more resounding shots echo back and ricochet.

The gun in Frank's hand fires three times, each shot ringing true. 

There's a yell of pain from one of the men, while another body thuds heavily against the pavement. 

One headshot, one less heartbeat.

There's running now, and the only thing Matt can think is how incredibly stupid you have to be for running away from Frank Castle, ex-military, likes dogs. 

It's not long before another shot echoes back, another body dropping with nothing more than a quiet thump. 

Only one heartbeat now.

"H-help me..." A hoarse voice calls out softly, fingernails scraping weakly across the pebbled ground. More shuffling. Clarity comes slowly to his hazy mind.

" _Please_ ," the man whispers on a ragged exhale — so soft that even Matt strains to hear it. "I don't want to die here." 

More footsteps — Frank's.

He walks right over the man crawling forward without any indication that he even acknowledges him as a human being, pleading pitifully for his life over and over.

"You good, Murdock?" Frank finally asks, kneeling in front of Matt. 

He's not sure if he nods or not. All he can smell is the tang of copper that paints Frank's boots in drops of red and hears the pained whispers of the man bleeding out three feet away. 

"Your belt," Matt slurs. "Give it to me."

Frank gives him an inquisitive look, but reluctantly obeys. The belt buckle is cool when it's pressed into Matt's hand, and it makes the fog in his head dissipate for a minute. 

He really feels blind when he stumbles clumsily, reaching out with his hands and letting them guide him to the source of pooling blood that's only growing by the second. It's sticky and coats his fingers in an unpleasant way, but he finds what he's looking for when the man gasps weakly.

It's clear Frank didn't miss. He hit femoral artery right on.

His hands are shaking, he knows, as he attempts to wrap the belt around the leg as an effective tourniquet. The man squirms uncomfortably, pulse fading at a rapid pace. He's already lost too much blood.

"Matt," Frank says finally. "He's not gonna make it."

"Then call 911!" Matt snaps back, even though he hears the faint call of sirens several blocks down. 

"They're already coming, Murdock." Frank confirms quietly, tone devoid of any emotion. 

And Matt just grits his teeth, and takes it. Something in his stomach twists unexpectedly — he can feel every fucking drop of blood that's pouring out of the guy, can taste it in his mouth, smells it in his nose, feels it already caking around his fingers like some kind of mold and now he can't breathe — it's everywhere and he can't _breathe_ —

"Murdock!" Frank barks, up close and breathing the familiar coffee breath into his face. "Breathe, _goddammit_!" 

His lungs rebel for a moment before he finally takes a breath of the cold air, hacking as it cleanses the smell of blood momentarily. His throat burns, nose flaring in irritation. Everything hurts.

There's a hand on his shoulder — his bad shoulder, he remembers — and he flinches violently as pain floods through his system like an instant electric shock.

"Fuck," Frank spits out and retracts his hand almost immediately. " _God_ , I'm sorry about that," he apologizes and Matt can feel the self hatred that is welling up deep inside Frank's chest, threatening to suffocate them both. 

"Get out of here," Matt manages between uneven breaths. The last he needs is for Frank to be arrested, the stubborn bastard.

"I'm not leavin' you here," Frank says firmly, making it clear that the conversation is over. 

Matt's sure he's mumbling the most embarassing things ever as Frank picks him up like a sack of potatoes and promptly throws him over his shoulder in one swing. His shoulder groans in protest, and he's pretty sure that whatever the hell is in system won't be going away anytime soon.

"Stay _with_ me, Matt," he hears Frank say as his head spins and spins and doesn't stop.

The world becomes much much darker — so dark, that it snuffs out his world on fire.

The last thing he hears is the only heartbeat that seems to matter at the moment: Frank Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!! <3 Here's my gift to all you single pringles (and couples I guess 😉). 
> 
> I am super excited and proud to bring you this chapter. It was a bit finicky at first, but I think I pulled it off okay. This bad baby was around 7,000 words, so yikes. I guess I keep adding more and more each chapter.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed. I love reading your guys comments about the story, so thank you to those kind individuals who have been supporting me throughout this. :)


	4. Make Me A Promise (Don't Break It)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the process of trying to tend to Murdock's injury, Frank sees something he has to confront Murdock about. Coincidentally, they end up sharing a bed for the night. Matt is finally introduced to Amy, and given some valuable advice on moving forward.

As far as shitty days went, Frank was sure _this_ one would certainly top all.

Having Matt Murdock slung over his shoulder was an experience that Frank never thought he'd have the displeasure of having. Murdock wasn't heavy; actually, quite the opposite. The man barely had any meat on his bones, and the only thing that gave him any sort of weight was his build — which still wasn't much. 

If Frank wasn't so concerned about getting them both somewhere safe, he would've definitely told Murdock how he felt. The man didn't even grab any coffee on their date for Christ's sake.

Their date.

Oh god.

Frank dealt with idiots everyday — the ones who forgot to turn the safety off, then the ones who neglected to check the chamber to make sure there was ammo loaded and ready — but he was almost certain that Murdock was a whole _different_ breed. I mean what the hell was he thinking, jumping into him like that, knowing full well that he was armed and dangerous?

His finger was already on the trigger — sights aimed directly over his heart, ready to _squeeze_ without a moment's hesitation. A gust of wind could have easily blown by and thrown him over the edge, and then Murdock wouldn't be alive and dangling across his shoulder like the idiot he was at the moment.

Yet even as he walked, felt Murdock sway ever so slightly in his grip, he felt strangely at ease — the adrenaline slipping away like a wave returning to the sea. It was a shame that Murdock was conked out.

As if on cue, the sack of potatoes across his shoulders groans.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Frank declares with no amount of sympathy in his tone. 

Pleasantries always were overrated anyways.

For a second, he's not sure if Murdock heard him. There's no indication, no intake of breath to signal a response is forming. Something coils tightly in his gut, uncomfortable and cold. 

"You shot me," finally comes the raspy reply and he swears that it sounds accusatory, as if Murdock wasn't the one who initiated the whole thing. While it's not exactly the response he was expecting, it makes Frank relax slightly. At least he's not dead. 

He tries for the best shrug he can, feels his shoulders lift an inch before sinking back down lazily. "You were straddling me," he points out impassionately, attempting to reason his actions. 

"I —" Murdock splutters, and Frank can almost feel the red that splashes across his cheeks in heated waves. "I was _not_!"

"Pretty sure you were, Murdock. Unless I was just imagining your legs splayed out on either side of me," Frank states dryly and relishes in the way he squirms in embarrassment, cheeks flaring again in bright red.

"I believe the traditional response is 'you're welcome for saving your ass, sorry I shot you,'" Murdock prompts, voice bouncing off Frank's back with bitter resentment.

And yeah, Frank would be lying if he didn't feel a teeny tiny pebble of guilt for shooting Murdock in the shoulder, but he had absolutely no reason to tell anyone that. Besides, it was only a graze — he had checked shortly after just to be sure. Nothing was life threatening, though if Murdock kept being a pain in the ass, that could change in a heartbeat.

"I had it handled, alright? But you just had to get in the way — get _involved_ ," Frank scoffs and doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's pissed. If he hadn't interfered, maybe they wouldn't be in this predicament right now, walking down the street like it was normal carrying a blind man over his shoulders.

"Yeah, you had it handled," Murdock says sourly, the mocking in his tone an indication of his own irritation on the matter. 

Frank's tempted to just drop him on his ass.

"Guess you must be feelin' better," he concludes with a sardonic smile, readjusting his grip and purposefully letting Murdock slip a few inches before hoisting him back up.

The intake of air as Murdock comes to the realization at just how close he was to face-planting into the pavement is sadistically satisfying, and Frank can't help the smug smirk that plasters itself widely across his face. Hey, taking gratification in the small things, right?

"And why is that?" Murdock finally asks when he's evened out his breathing, the scowl returning. 

"'Cause even though you're probably drugged out of your mind, you still can't stop arguing with me," Frank remarks indifferently.

Murdock laughs but it sounds more like a raspy wheeze. "Arguing?" He echoes, incredulity layering his tone.

"What?" Frank says before he can stop himself. "You call that _flirting_?" 

That most definitely shuts Murdock up. If it was that easy to get him to be quiet, Frank would've tried that a lot sooner.

They — well, Frank — keeps walking on, careful to take as many back alleys he can to avoid outright walking in the middle of the street. The last thing they need is more attention. A sharp right turn has him backed up into a dead end, and he finds himself huffing in frustration as he stares at the decorated graffitied walls that loom over him tauntingly. Guess he wasn't going that way.

"Where are you taking me?" Murdock demands groggily, as if he had woken up from a very unpleasant nap. 

"Somewhere safe," is Frank's gruff reply. He didn't need to be specific. It's not like Murdock could do anything about the situation he was in, and to be honest, Frank wasn't entirely sure where he was bringing them either.

"Would it kill you to elaborate a bit?" Murdock finally says after a pause, still uneasy and unsure. As if Frank saving his ass was just a sick way to extend the game so that he could kill him later down the line.

He didn't mind that Murdock was apprehensive. It meant that he'd be more inclined to leave quickly once Frank dealt with this shitty situation, and trust me — that's all he wanted at the moment.

Still, cold reassurance wouldn't harm anything.

"Trust me, Murdock. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be slung over my shoulder right now," Frank informs him with the plain honest truth, and doesn't bother specifying any further. Idle chit chat wasn't his favorite pastime. 

He seems to ponder Frank's statement carefully, as if treading on broken glass. It makes the hair on Frank's neck stick up, hackles raised out of restlessness and the feeling of being in a glass jar — studied by some kooky scientist while they change variables and run experiments on him. It's honestly unnerving how perceptive Murdock seems to be for a blind man, and while he did save his life, Frank doesn't trust him as far as he could throw him. 

"You killed the men in the alley," Murdock points out almost clinically, only a slight inflection giving away the accusatory tone that makes Frank set his jaw in irritation.

"They got off easy if you ask me," Frank replies with a low snort that emphasizes just how ridiculous his claim was. He wasn't going to stand there while bullets flew over their heads. 

"Easy?" Murdock repeats breathlessly, and there's a note of a heated spark that catches in his throat, a wildfire that's about to consume them both in red flames. "You just shot them down like rabid dogs, Frank. _Jesus_."

"Tell me the difference," he spits out in response.

"They're people! Living, breathing people, Frank," Murdock honest to God _snarls_ , lip curling exactly like a feral dog would, teeth flashing white in disgust. Frank can feel him trying to repress the trembling in his body. 

"Scum. Assholes. Low lives. Take your pick, Murdock," Frank quips in response. "People ain't what they are though." 

"How can you do that?" Murdock demands on a low whisper that's ragged and pathetic. "Amount a human life, to nothing but shit on a shoe?"

"Because that's what they are."

"The world is just black and white for you, huh?" Murdock retorts, venom lacing heavily in his tone as he snaps back like a viper.

"Yup. I see a bad guy, I shoot," Frank states passively with another stiff shrug. "See, I don't have the luxury to wait around for them to magically start helping cats out of trees, Murdock. You're living in a fairytale if you think for one _second_ that's the way the world works."

There's a long pause, and all Frank can hear is the pounding of his heart over and over again. The treacherous thing that pumps life into his body. 

Some days he wishes it didn't beat at all. Today is one of those days.

It's almost a blessing when Murdock finally speaks, rousing him out of his thoughts.

"You didn't hesitate," Murdock says quietly. "You hunted them down." He sounds so exhausted when he asks. "Why?"

And maybe it's the adrenaline that's steadily thrumming in his veins, the very core of him. Maybe it's because he's stupid and incredibly sloppy with how he handles his emotions, but Frank opens his mouth and he can't do anything to stop the words that seem to pour directly from that treacherous organ that forces him to feel something. 

"Goddammit, Murdock, because they were shooting at us!"

Time freezes. Frank freezes. Murdock freezes.

 _Us_ , not me. He had said _us_ , like they were a team or some buddies going out for a casual drink.

Now Frank wasn't stupid. Sure, some things spill out in the heat of the moment but this time it's different. Murdock is different. He makes him lose control, forces his emotions to take over — irritates him to no end. This hasn't ever happened to him before, where he's felt so powerless in the presence of a blind man. Even though Frank is in control of this situation — he knows he is — it makes him feel defenseless and vulnerable.

The thought dawns on him, breaking through his walls like sunlight rushing into an unlit room.

Murdock _challenges_ him.

And Frank never backed down from a challenge, ever. That's what made it so much harder.

God, Murdock is so infuriating.

He's not sure exactly when he got to the end of the next alley, but every continuous step, he feels something tighten deep in his chest. Murdock's breathing is considerably calm, despite their spat and Frank's inevitable outburst. It makes his skin boil in anger at how easily he can come down from it all — how Murdock can initiate the war, but can't _finish_ it.

Life wasn't ever fair.

And Frank knew he wasn't being fair when he admittedly decided to open his mouth to spew nothing but spikes of hurt directed wherever he could reach. 

"Yeah, and this whole date thing?" He snaps and hates the way his vision blurs at the edges, colors being swept together in a torrent of haziness. "It wasn't even _my_ idea," he says through forced teeth. "I didn't want to come there in the first place." 

He knows it stings, far worse than any gunshot wound or slap. He feels the way Murdock's lungs stutter for a moment, how his body stiffens automatically at his comment — yet all Frank can think about is the way his own heart is screaming "lie, lie, _lie_."

Eventually, Murdock lets out a labored exhale, but betrays no other emotion or response for Frank to read or acknowledge. He's quiet again, slowly slipping away and sagging in Frank's grip as a way of telling him he's done. 

It should be comforting, but it isn't.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't mind the silence.

*** * ***

Despite Murdock being reasonably light, after a good thirty minutes of hauling his ass around, Frank knew that he could only go to one place.

His apartment.

It was the last place he wanted to bring him, but it was the _only_ place he could bring him. 

Frank wasn't fond of hospitals — they were noisy and too big for his taste. He never felt safe in them, and for the price it cost, it just wasn't worth it. He had checked Murdock's injuries and determined that he wouldn't bleed out, and while Frank was more than capable of stitching him up if needed, he didn't want the guy in his home. All he seemed to do was argue about his lack of morals and preach about his shitty code that he followed as a lawyer.

Well Frank was a soldier who did a lot of messed up shit to protect his country, and while he never berated those who couldn't handle pulling the trigger, based on Murdock's response to that man who was bleeding out, it was clear that they had lived in two very opposite world's growing up.

Frank saw men die everyday out in the field. Some in gruesome ways, while others had the luxury of going quick — a simple bullet to the head. A mercy kill.

In his head, it had been engraved — etched into the very fiber of his skin. Bad guys, _shoot_. You couldn't hesitate when you were in war. It would get you killed, or worse — get someone else killed.

Frank had enough burdens that he carried with him. He didn't need Murdock as one either.

The tread up the stairs was incessantly long.

"Frank!" A shrill voice squeaks behind him, pitch as high as a creaky swing. Dress shoes clap against the hardwood stairs shortly behind him.

Goddammit.

"Hey, Reva." He half turns, pivots on the stair to give her the best smile he can, given the circumstances.

She scowls. "Listen 'ere, Frank. I don't want no more trouble, you hear me? I don't know what's been goin' on lately, but neighbors said you been causin' a ruckus," Reva continues chidingly. "You hearin' me, Castle?"

"Yes ma'am," Frank affirms with a nod. "I'm sorry 'bout the trouble. It won't happen again."

"Best it don't," Reva replies with a huff. "And who is _this_?" She points out in annoyance, gesturing to Murdock's slumped body.

"Friend from outta town," Frank replies with another forced smile. "He had a few too many drinks, but he'll be gone soon, promise."

Reva frowns, a sigh forming as she glances at them both. Finally, after a moment, she speaks. "Alright, whatever. Just be on your merry way."

"Yes ma'am," Frank says again, and picks up his pace to finish the remaining few steps.

His hand is heavy when he raps on the wooden door, readjusting his grip on Murdock when he realizes he's slipping. "Kid, it's Frank," he calls gruffly as he knocks again.

He waits a good thirty seconds before pounding on the door again with renewed vigor, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up again in worry.

Finally, a meek little voice, muffled by the door rings out. "What's the password?"

He sighs. "Amy, open the goddamn door."

Begrudgingly, he hears the lock slide and the chain dangle freely as she obeys. The door slides a few inches open, and it's almost amusing how she peeks around the corner like some toddler who knows that they did something wrong.

"Jesus!" Amy exclaims once she sees him, taking in account for Murdock slung across his shoulders rather ungracefully as she eyes him with a familiar glower. "Do you always bring your date home the first time you meet them?"

Frank scowls, to which Amy snickers in something of complacent glee. "Move," he orders with a huff. "He's hurt and bleeding."

"Should I give you two some privacy?" Amy asks suspiciously, completely disregarding Frank's last statement even as she backs up a step to let them both in with a smug grin that radiates mischievousness and only spells out trouble.

"For the love of — Amy! He's _bleeding_ ," Frank repeats, exasperated. "I need to patch him up before he can leave," he hisses indignantly as he shoves past her with little consideration. 

"Leave?" Amy parrots, eyes squinting in disbelief. 

He ignores her for a moment, hurriedly making his way towards his bedroom. He hesitates only for a moment before easing Murdock off his back with one fluid motion and onto his bed, letting out an appreciative groan as his back is finally freed from the monstrous weight. God, he's _never_ doing that ever again.

Murdock stirs, looking far too comfortable in Frank's bedsheets. His shoulder is still bleeding, but Murdock seems so calm right now that it almost seems cruel to wake him. Whatever the hell they gave him would have to wear off eventually, but Frank was hoping it would be sooner rather than later. He seemed to be doing alright, all things considered. 

Murdock shifts again, this time letting out an exhausted groan. It snaps Frank out of his thoughts and spurs him into action, grabbing the med kit from the bathroom and returning in under a minute to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Murdock," Frank says softly as he reaches out to clasp at the lapels of his jacket. "You with me?"

Tired hazel eyes open drearily, and Frank can't help the hitch in his breathing as he watches those eyes roam the room as if he could see the mess that Frank called home. Murdock's lip purse out of discomfort as he blinks slowly, his bad shoulder stiffening when he tries to sit up abruptly.

Immediately, Frank helps him to the best comfortable sitting position. 

"You're at my apartment," he informs him with a tight lipped smile, observing the way Murdock visibly relaxes slightly and swallows convulsively. Frank takes that as a sign of acknowledgement, and so he opens the med kit with a click to rummage through.

His fingers find the white gauze and bandages too easily.

"I can do it," Murdock says finally, a faint smile ghosting the corners of his lips.

"It'll be easier if I do it," Frank points out a little awkwardly, his hand finding the back of his neck as he rubs tight circles into the tensed muscle. "It'll be clean and quick," he adds assuringly, trying his best to sound reasonable. "I've had experience, y'know?"

"So have I," comes Murdock's clipped reply, a sharper edge underlining his tone. His mouth setting a tight line that draws taut like a bow string. 

Frank snorts, but knows better than to argue. He never seems to win a fight with him. "Murdock, you're a stubborn jackass, you know that?" He grunts, low and irritated.

"Heard that one before." Murdock is definitely grinning this time, teeth flashing for the briefest of moments before disappearing entirely. 

It makes something flutter in Frank's stomach, and he finds his eyes trailing Murdock's jawline right to that _perfect_ crescent bow lip that quivers ever so slightly whenever he takes the time to really stare at it.

Oh, Jesus. Get a grip, Castle.

He swallows a dry gulp of air, suddenly realizing that his face resembles much like a fish out of water — lips slightly parted around a witty response to try and defuse the situation as fast as he can. God, he cannot let Murdock know what he was thinking right then and there.

Murdock tilts his head slightly, a little to the right, as if he were listening for something amidst Frank's labored breathing. It makes him uneasy.

"Just — " Frank starts and wants to shoot himself in the foot when his voice sounds like a breathless squeak. "Just take your shirt off then, yeah? I want to see it before you start, to be sure."

"No," Murdock says a little too fast, a little too desperate. "I've got it handled, Frank. Just — can I get some privacy for a few?" Then to Frank's increasing reluctance, adds, "I'll call you if I need help."

"Sure you will," Frank remarks sarcastically and resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

Murdock stares off a little to the left, waiting.

He doesn't try to hide the long sigh that blows through his nose. Gingerly, he picks up the med kit and nudges it next to Murdock's hand, purposefully brushing it against his knuckles as he steps back. 

"I'm checkin' in ten, Murdock."

And then he's closing the bedroom door, cloaking the room in darkness.

Amy is immediately drawn to him like a mosquito, peering up to look at him with a puzzled look and literally buzzing with excitement. Her eyes then flicker towards his, wariness clouding her gaze as she lowers her voice and asks, "What the hell happened to him?" 

"He got shot," Frank says vaguely with a shrug. "And drugged," he adds nonchalantly when he remembers.

Amy eyes him again, this time with an inquisitive eyebrow raise. "And would _you_ have anything to do with that?"

The kids quick, he'll give her that. Instead of offering her a response, he turns his attention to the freshly brewed pot of coffee that's emitting a pleasantly warm smell. As if on autopilot, he finds himself trodding over to the kitchen, pouring himself a full cup of the rich liquid. 

"I'm taking that as a yes, you know," Amy informs him snidely. 

He takes a long and fulfilling sip, savoring the way the coffee blend sticks to his tongue with the sharp spike of bitterness. He takes another swallow. Not bad coffee for being off brand.

"So what, this all happened on your date?" Amy continues as if they're still conversing. 

He swirls the liquid inside his mouth to try and wash out the sour taste that suddenly overtakes his taste buds.

"You'll have to tell me eventually you know," she points out accusingly, stepping in his field of vision so that she can see his face. 

The ceramic handle is quickly becoming warm in his hand, sending waves of numbing hot pain down his arm. He can't help the way his voice hitches in pitch, still gravelly but snappish. "Yeah, it happened on the date, alright?"

"Jesus, Frank. Is it really that hard to go on a date without it ending in a shootout?" 

"Well it's not like I planned for people to come after me while I was on a fucking date, Amy!" Frank growls as he starts to pace behind the door, his nerves set alight with guilt.

"Well why aren't you helping him?" Amy demands in the same tone, gesturing to the very door he's pacing behind. "He's blind, right? He can't patch himself up!"

Frank gives her a look, eyebrows relaxing as his lips form a thin line. He sets down his cup on the edge of the counter with a little bit more force than needed. "He's a stubborn bastard is what he is, and he made it clear that he didn't need help," he mutters irritably.

" _Mhm_ ," Amy hums, a knowing grin spreading almost smugly across her face. "That's at least something you two have in common."

Frank glares.

If Murdock really was patching himself up, he was doing very quietly. He couldn't even hear the sounds of him taking off his shirt, or even a squeak from the bed to indicate movement.

Amy must have sensed the same thing because she jerks her thumb to the door and mouths, "check on him." 

Frank's not exactly sure when he started taking orders from the kid, but he finds his body automatically drawn to the door — his hand clasping the cold knob without him really even noticing. He probably should've given Murdock some kind of warning, but he's already pushing it open with a soft whine, eyes straining at the lack of light in the room.

He hears the frantic shuffling, the bed sheets tangling around Murdock's body as he attempts to move.

"Murdock?" Frank calls quietly, blindly reaching out to switch on the overhead light with a simple flick. "I just wanted to check on — Jesus _fucking_ Christ…"

At first he thinks it's the trick of the light, somehow painting a purple hue across Murdock's body in irregular shapes. But it takes him only a moment for his eyes to adjust to see that there are purple bruises mottling over Murdock's side, chest, stomach — and _goddammit_ , just about everywhere he can see. 

Somewhere down the line, Murdock had definitely gotten his ass kicked.

And more notably, Murdock didn't want him to see.

"Frank —" and it's Murdock, and he's yanking the sheets up to his chest as he lets out a shaky exhale. His jaw is set in cold determination, eyes dancing around frantically. "Listen, it's not —" 

"No, no, _no_ ," Frank cuts him off with a sharp growl that leaps out of his throat like a primal animal. He feels his fist clench reflexively, his adrenaline spiking in anger when his eyes roam across his prone form. "What the fuck happened to you, Murdock? Cut the shit."

"I'm a blind man, Frank." Murdock's hands are trembling as they clutch at his white sheets. "I'm clumsy. Things _happen_."

"Is that so?" Frank huffs, his demeanor cold and voice rough as sandpaper. "'Cause from where I'm standing, it looks like you got your ass handed to you."

Murdock closes his eyes. "Leave it, Frank."

"Nah, see; I don't think I will," he says with a malignant smile that sets off alarm bells in his head. He moves closer, reaching out to clutch at the sheets Murdock has pressed over his body. He needs to check for any more serious injuries.

Almost instantly, Murdock's hand latches onto his wrist with enough force that makes his breathing stutter for a second out of surprise.

" _Don't_ ," Murdock whispers forcefully. It's a plea.

"Then tell me what happened," Frank urges stiffly, his teeth grinding together in an effort to not throw the sheets off and examine any other secrets Murdock might be hiding underneath those covers.

Predictably, Murdock falls silent and turns his head away as if he were ashamed. 

"What?" Frank scoffs. "Was it a lover? An old flame? Or did you tumble off a two story building?" Honestly, the third option didn't seem so far fetched.

"Do I have to choose?" Murdock says tiredly, a hint of boredom oozing from his tone.

Frank mutters something incoherent under his breath before licking his chapped lips, devoid of any moisture. He leans in, almost nose to nose with Murdock, observing the way he sucks in a breath and swallows uncomfortably. This isn't about his comfort anymore as far as Frank is concerned. He wants _answers_.

That perfect crescent bow lip trembles slightly.

So Frank leans in even closer, right by Murdock's ear. He lets his breath brush past with nothing more than a soft exhale, and whispers, "You're an _idiot_ if you think I don't recognize the bruising patterns. Even if you were into kinky shit, it wouldn't ever be to this degree and certainly not if someone was doing it professionally."

And while Murdock says nothing, gives no indication he's even heard Frank, something in his expression cracks.

"When you're ready to be honest, I'll be right here," Frank informs him, his smile flickering like a hologram put on display as he sits upright and stands to leave.

"Right here?" Murdock echoes distantly, voice strained and confused.

"What, you got curfew or something?" Frank banters, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. "Yes, right here," he reiterates with a snort when Murdock's expression falls blank. "You ain't goin' anywhere, at least not tonight. I don't need you wandering the streets while you're hurt, and getting yourself jumped again."

"I'm pretty sure you were the only one who jumped me, Frank," Murdock reminds him with a steely look. 

He can't really deny that.

"You're staying here tonight," Frank decides, finality ringing in his tone. "So you might as well make yourself comfortable," he points out as he gestures to the pillows he's already strewn on top of.

Murdock doesn't argue this time, but instead gives him a wary look. "Usually I like to make sure that the person I'm staying the night with isn't a psychotic killer," he drawls.

"Guess you'll have to take your chances, Murdock." He shrugs, even though he knows he wouldn't stop him if he walked out that door. 

Ultimately, it was up to Murdock and Murdock alone.

So you can imagine his surprise when Murdock sighs, visibly slinking underneath the covers like a snail going back into their shell. 

Despite Murdock's low voice and the sheets that absorb most of the coherent sentences, he hears a disgruntled, "Fine, as long as we aren't sharing a bed."

"Don't be ridiculous," Frank says with a roll of his eyes.

*** * ***

Imagine Matt's surprise when Frank slid into bed with him the very same night, spewing profanities so severe and unique that even he couldn't even suppress the laugh that was bubbling out of his chest.

"Shut the _fuck_ up," Frank had growled so ferociously that Matt wished so badly that he could see — to picture and frame a still image of Frank in this moment, humiliated and hissing like a stray cat while he begrudgingly continued to swear like a sailor next to him.

"No funny business, understand?" Frank had said as clearly as he could, nostrils still flaring in irritation as he wiggled under the covers. "I'm not opposed to cuffing you to the headboard if you try anything, Murdock," he promised with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Matt simply nodded even as the smirk grew sinfully across his face. "I understand," he said with an innocent tilt of his head.

With that, Frank snagged one of the pillows by his head and let it drop sloppily across the top of the bed with a simple whoosh of air, purposefully turning away from him to sleep the other way.

That was about an hour ago, and despite the discomfort of sleeping in cotton sheets, Matt felt strangely at ease — which was even more messed up considering the man laying next to him had killed three men, threatened him, and couldn't stop arguing with Matt on anything that had to do with basic morale. 

Still, it felt nice to share a bed with someone. To feel someone's warmth near him, heartbeat steady under the duress of heavy sleep as their lungs filled with blissful oxygen with every inhale.

So that's how Matt finally fell asleep, listening to the rhythmic thump of Frank's heart and drifting into a haze.

It was 2:38 AM when Matt realized that he wasn't dreaming of an earthquake; the bed was actually moving.

Matt didn't consider himself a heavy sleeper. A gust of wind could wake him up if it swept across any part of his exposed body. It was annoying, but sometimes it had its perks. 

For instance, now.

The earthquake was, in fact, _Frank_. 

He's turning in the bed violently, muscles visibly straining as if he was being chained down with invisible links. Even the veins on his neck are tense, neck arching as he lets out a guttural yell. Matt can even feel the increase of warmth in his body, and the racing heartbeat that didn't even sound remotely familiar to his ears.

It didn't Matt long to decipher what was really happening.

Nightmares were not uncommon for him, and understandably, not uncommon for Frank either he guessed.

His first instinct is obviously to wake Frank up — either verbally or physically. It seems like the logical decision, to snap him out of whatever hell he was reliving while Matt is watching. But he isn't stupid. Doing so could elicit some kind of response that could be potentially dangerous to both of them. He's not sure where Frank keeps his guns, but considering how well he had managed to hide it when they were on their coffee date, he didn't really want to find out by being at the end of the barrel again.

But really, what else could Matt do?

So he decides to wait, despite Frank's yelling lowering and rising at different intervals. He's shaking now, full body tremors that rock the bed again with terror and pain. Incoherent sentences roll off his tongue in a feverish tone, syllables jumbled and pitch altering every other second.

He sounds so wrecked and absolutely _miserable_.

Matt doesn't know how much longer he can sit there and watch. It feels personal, even a little invasive. He's almost certain that if Frank had control right now, Matt wouldn't ever be witnessing this.

Another minute passes.

Matt can't do this anymore — hearing Frank crying hoarse in pain, even small whimpers bubbling out from his lips.

He reaches out, fingers extending to gently grasp Frank's arm.

"No, no… Lisa, you can't… Frank Jr, he's not… please," Frank murmurs softly as his whole body trembles once more, then sags like a ragdoll — as if he's given up.

Matt hesitantly retracts his hand inch by inch, swallowing the dryness and sickening feeling back down.

"Goddamn you," Frank whispers hollowly, as if he was condemning someone to the deepest darkest hole he could find.

Something in Matt's stomach twists.

Frank had a family. 

It shouldn't have been surprising to him. Frank had obviously experienced his own personal loss, but that was a given considering that he had served in the military. Matt knew that people who came back from war were almost never the same — and he didn't blame them. War wasn't something you stroll in and out of. It was dirty, bloody and gruesome. Nothing about it was humane. 

The question remained: how and when?

It was clear to Matt that a family had not been present in the picture for at least a good couple years. The only thing he smelled in Frank's apartment was him, the girl and an overuse in cleaning products. He hadn't called anyone to let them know Matt was staying overnight, and with the amount of coffee brewed, it was only enough for three people at max. 

Either Frank was on the run, or he had suffered a great loss. Both could've been believable, but Matt definitely thought the latter. 

As if on cue, Frank let out a drawn out wail. It catches in his throat, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle — as if he were struggling to keep his eyes shut. The yelling begins once more, the same phrase over and over again: "no, no, _NO_!" 

"Frank," Matt tries to call gently, resting his hand across his wrist in one tender movement. "You're having a nightmare, Frank."

Frank's whole body flinches, yanking himself away from Matt's hand and arching his back to accommodate for the next spasm. "I'm gonna… kill you, hear me? You… _mmph_ … bastard! Gonna… kill you… I —" His breathing pattern suddenly shifts to more rapid, short breaths. It's accompanied by ragged wheezes as he cries out again.

He's hyperventilating.

Shit.

He tries to shake Frank this time, firm hands wrapping around his shoulders as he rocks him slightly. "Frank, _goddammit_. Wake up!"

If anything, it just makes it worse. This time Frank lashes out, landing a solid hit against Matt's side that makes him instinctively let go immediately and back off, sucking in a much needed breath when it landed across one of his healing bruises.

His hand twitches automatically, stiffening as it forms the perfect angle to slap Frank out of this nightmare. To finally end the misery that he's seeing.

He backs it up a couple inches from Frank's face and then lets his hand fly.

The moment before it hits, Matt cups Frank's cheek instead and _kisses_ him.

Whatever Matt was thinking up to the very last few seconds — it didn't matter. What he's doing now, lips pressed tightly against Frank's is purely selfish and impulsive. 

Amidst the chaos, Frank's body tenses and he freezes against Matt's mouth. Respectfully, Matt pulls away, flustered and even a little bit ashamed at what he just did. God, what was he going to tell him when he woke up?

But then Frank is _pushing_ back against him, lips trembling slightly as he chases the warmth of Matt's mouth again with such desperation that it makes his heart stop for a moment. His eyes are still closed, but his breathing has evened out considerably.

It's nothing like kissing Karen or Elektra. 

It's passionate and warm and _perfect_. He feels like he's on fire, the very tips of his fingertips vibrating with the intensity of each kiss.

A day's worth of stubble brushes against Matt's jaw, and he can taste the coffee from their date on Frank's tongue that is sweeping across his own in gentle strokes. His own hand, cupped against Frank's cheek is brushing tender circles around the bone there, until his thumb reaches down to run it along the chapped corners of those full lips. 

Frank's lips are parted slightly, relaxed. His own hand drifting to Matt's lips to mimic the motion. It smells of gunpowder, sweat and _him_ , and somewhere in the back of his mind, Matt wondered what it would be like to get lost in Frank's tidal wave of ecstasy and pleasure.

Frank's lips are slotting against his again with the warmth of a brisk summer breeze, and Matt distantly realizes that the heat coiling down there isn't just his own. 

They probably need to stop before it goes too far.

It's almost as if Frank can read his mind because he pulls back, smiles tiredly, and Matt is expecting some kind of witty insult or a declaration to continue but not…

" _Maria_..."

Matt stops, feels the air being pushed out of his lungs with a forceful shudder. It feels like a hot iron is being shoved down his throat.

The way Frank had said her name, so light and delicately. As if it were a prayer only said between them — reserved for them. The amount of adoration and tenderness in his voice could never amount to the kiss they had just shared, that Matt had wrongfully taken.

The sublest creak of a door hinge is what snaps his focus back. It's the girl, heartbeat elevated slightly out of surprise or fear, he's not sure. He doesn't even know how long she's been watching.

It was stupid of him to ever pull a stunt like that.

The door closes with a sickening click, as if mockingly trying to give them some sense of privacy. 

Frank's breathing is ragged again, hand wearily searching the bed. "Maria, _please_..."

Matt's chest tightens.

"Please don't leave me," Frank murmurs tiredly, still coming down from the high they were riding a minute ago. His hand reaches out towards Matt's warmth, fingers trembling.

He lets himself sink back into the mattress, the heaviness in his stomach refusing to settle. Finally, after a moment he lets his fingers brush against Frank's before interlocking them together. 

A promise.

"I'm not going to leave you," Matt whispers back, squeezing the hand clutched in his.

*** * ***

The morning came way too quickly.

Even though Matt wasn't able to physically see the rays peeking through the curtains, he could feel the radiating warmth that dragged along his skin in uncomfortable pin pricks.

When the haze and fog slowly cleared from his mind, he almost fell out of the bed.

His immediate thought was I just kissed Frank Castle last night.

The following thought after was that Foggy and Karen might just finally kill him, if Frank didn't get to him first.

To be honest with himself, he really really didn't want to get up.

Then Frank groans next to him, and Matt finds himself immediately tensing up. Out of all the ways to die, having your brains blown out by the very same person you shared a bed with didn't seem as bad as some of the other alternatives. Regardless, the thought was not reassuring.

His fate had been sealed the amount he had leaned over and kissed the idiot.

The aromatic smell of bacon seeps through the door, reminding Matt's empty stomach of the neglected meals he had been skipping. And truthfully, he was actually kind of hungry. 

The creak of the mattress alerts Matt of the still figure still turned over in bed, his hand empty and cold. Finally, there's a low grunt. "Surprised you're still in bed, Murdock," comes the groggy response.

Matt's so surprised that it takes him a minute to really focus on Frank, hearing the continuous thump of an innocent heart and the breathing of a normal human being.

That's it?

After everything that happened last night, that's all he could come up with? Jesus. Even his pickup lines weren't as bad.

"That was my version of good morning," Frank informs him grumpily, voice muffled by the pillow that his face is buried into.

The memories erupt like a volcano, hitting him directly like a punch to the stomach. Right. He thought it was Maria kissing him. 

Yeah, that complicates things.

Frank groans and turns over to face him, face scrunching up when the sunlight blinds him. "Are you deaf as well, Murdock?"

"Good morning," Matt finally says with an uneasy smile. 

" _Jesus_ ," Frank huffs as he runs his hand along his face, attempting to try and wake himself up. "I need coffee," he announces with a loud yawn. 

And that's definitely coffee that's lingering in the air, filling up Matt's nose almost teasingly, tempting him to get out of bed. The smile he gives now is unrestrained and free. "I think she's got it covered, Frank."

Frank blinks sleepily. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Amy. Man, that kid should get a gold star."

"Maybe you should introduce me then," Matt points out sheepishly as he attempts to sit up, his shoulder so unbelievably stiff that he's not sure whether it was because of the bed or the way he had slept while holding Frank's hand. 

Footsteps pad softly against the carpeted floor, stopping briefly behind the door for a second.

"No need. Here she comes," Frank grunts as he grabs Matt's pillow out from under him and throws it over his head.

True to his word, the door bursts open. The girl — Amy — stands there like some kind of bodyguard, glancing over at them both with a raised eyebrow. The smell of coffee and bacon is much more prominent now.

"Are you two lovebirds going to stay in bed all morning, or are you going to get your asses up and get some food in those stomachs?" She states with a snort.

The kid has fire, that's for sure.

Matt lets out an appreciative chuckle and listens to the way Frank groans under the pillows. Guess he wasn't really a morning person.

"I'm Amy, by the way," she says as her gaze settles heavily on Matt. There's a note in her voice that isn't quite hostile, but it definitely makes him dry swallow. 

Yeah, she definitely saw what happened last night.

"Matt," he replies with his best genuine smile — the ones he used when meeting new clients for the first time. "Pleasure to meet you, Amy."

"Likewise," she hums. "Sorry we couldn't be introduced last night," she continues ruefully. Then, much to Matt's amusement, walks over to yank the pillow off of Frank's head with a simple rustle of air. " _Someone_ ," she huffs, "wouldn't let me." She emphasizes that by flinging the cushion against the opposite corner and smirking in satisfaction when Frank growls in response.

"I'd let you get away with _murder_ if a lawyer wasn't in bed with me right now," Frank manages with a lethargic grumble. 

Matt snorts. "I won't tell anyone anything as long as I get something to eat."

Amy beams brightly, eyes twinkling. "Guess you're in luck then. Come on," she says as gestures to the kitchen behind her. "Frank takes like an hour to just get out of bed."

Matt nods and takes a deep breath, letting the sheet drop and fall partially to the ground. 

Amy lets out a shaky exhale, a wistful smile ghosting her figure as she watches him. It reminds him of the way Karen used to look at him when he came to work the next day with a black eye.

"See you in there," Amy comments before slipping through the doorway.

He's so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn't realize that his dress shirt is still caked in blood until the pungent smell of copper jostles his nose when he reaches for it.

"Take one of mine," Frank offers abruptly.

Matt's pretty sure he stops breathing for a second. "Thanks — uh…"

"About three steps to your left."

Sure enough, he finds the brass handle fashioned neatly in the middle. An almost inaudible creak is heard when he pulls it open, smelling of off brand laundry detergent and Frank. 

The fabric is soft when he reaches for one of the shirts.

"It's black," Frank says, almost apologetically. "I don't usually keep other colors."

"Blacks fine," Matt replies with a small smile. "I fancy it over most of the colors anyways."

Frank scowls suspiciously. "You're blind," he reminds him, as if he wasn't even aware of his own disability.

Matt laughs. "It's the feeling, Frank." 

"Edgy?" Frank retorts.

"Funny," Matt replies dryly. He runs his hand along the collar, noting the way it feels way too fancy to wear casually. The familiar twinge of guilt twists in his stomach again — he argued with Frank the whole way, refused to tell him about the bruises and then kissed him in his own bed while he was having a nightmare.

And now he's wearing his shirts?

"Just wear it, _hell_ — keep it if you want," Frank huffs sourly, as if reading Matt's expression. It's starting to get really creepy at how perceptive Frank seems to be when he's watching him. "I never wear it anyways," Frank clarifies with a shrug.

"Thank you," Matt says as he gingerly slides both of his arms in, fumbling with the buttons. It's definitely big on him, but it was actually _really_ comfortable. "See you out there, yeah?" 

"Yeah." Frank pauses. "See you out there."

He lingers by the doorway for a moment before forcing himself to take that one extra step into the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

Breakfast was relatively calm, all things considered. Amy could certainly cook, that's for sure. When he had gotten to the table, there were several pieces of bacon accompanied by an egg and sourdough toast. Even a cup of coffee had been nearly poured and set by the plate.

It didn't take him very long to finish with his stomach growling like a feral beast the whole time.

Matt is sipping his coffee contently when Amy asks, "so, you're a lawyer, right Matt?" 

"Yeah. Nelson and Murdock," Matt informs her with a friendly smile. 

"Seems like a pretty respectable business," Amy replies curtly, offering him nothing more than a strained attempt at a smile.

"It can be." Matt takes another sip, his teeth clinking against the rim on accident. 

Amy sighs. "Look, Matt." She peeks around to look behind him, pulling her head back in when she hears no movement from the bedroom. "Frank _isn't_ a respectable man. He does what needs to be done, no matter what it costs him. We don't need to agree with everything he does, but you can try to at least understand —"

"Wait, wait," Matt interrupts, setting down his drink. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm just saying that I don't want to see Frank hurt, that's all," Amy explains firmly, her lips forming a thin line. "The last thing he needs is to have his heart broken."

Matt had a sinking feeling of where this was going. "Amy, I don't —" 

"I saw the way you kissed him last night, Matt," she confirms flatly, cementing that feeling deep in his bones. 

He doesn't know what to say.

"I suppose I should thank you for helping him," she says then, a bit softer and even offering him a grateful smile afterwards. "I just want to make sure that you're serious about this," she states quietly. Then, adding to Matt's increasing apprehension, asks, "are you?"

"I — I don't know."

And he doesn't. He really doesn't. 

Amy nods then, lowering her gaze to her own cup of coffee. He can smell the two spoonfuls of sugar in there amidst the heavy dark brew. "It's because he was kissing you, and thinking about her," she says at last.

Despite taking another long sip of his coffee, he still feels like his tongue is dry and heavy in his mouth.

"What I said before, Matt." Absent-mindedly, she flicks the spoon in circular motions in her cup. It tinkles in response, the liquid swirling before coming to settle. "You're going to have to be understanding, and patient."

He can't really argue with that.

A few seconds later, Frank is sauntering down the hallway with a very noticeable pep in his step. 

He sits down beside Matt, admires the nice breakfast in front of him before starting to dig in.

For the rest of the time, they sit in silence. Matt finishes his coffee, while Amy is crunching on some of the last remaining pieces of bacon. 

It's only when Amy speaks up that Matt realizes he's been honing in on Frank's heartbeat like a radio signal.

"Right, well I'm going shopping since the only food we have in the fridge are two pizza pockets and a jar of outdated pickles." She gestures to her phone as she passes by both of them, eyebrow lifting. "I'll be back in thirty. Call me if you want something specific."

"Got it. Make sure you use the coupons on the counter," Frank says with a grunt.

"What are you, a grandma?" Amy counters with a snort, reluctantly turning around to snag the pile of bite sized papers and shove them into her coat pocket.

"Hey, things ain't cheap nowadays kid. Take what you can use," Frank reminds her with a lazy shrug. "Also we're almost out of coffee, so —"

"Already on my list, rough road," Amy interjects with a playful roll of her eyes. 

"Good." Frank raises his mug. "Thanks, Amy."

There's a low _mhm_ before he hears the jingle of keys and her footsteps receding from them. The door snaps shut.

It becomes quiet.

Frank clears his throat awkwardly. "Your uh — glasses," he starts nervously. There's a rustle of fabric, and then a soft click as Frank sets them on the table. "I forgot they were in my shirt pocket," he confesses.

Honestly, Matt hadn't even realized he didn't have them on this whole time. He almost always kept his glasses on unless he was patrolling around in the Daredevil suit.

"If you keep doing nice things for me, I'm going to have to start making a list you know," Matt replies dryly as the familiar weight of his glasses are tugged snugly over his eyes. 

Frank shakes his head adamantly. "Nah, consider it penance for me shoving you into a dumpster and then shooting you."

"Surely we're past that," Matt chides softly. He doesn't want Frank to feel guilty for what happened, much less feel obligated to repay him.

Frank just shrugs.

There's a shrill ring that catches both of their attention, followed by an automated voice saying, "Foggy, Foggy, Foggy."

" _Shit_." It doesn't take Matt long to navigate his way back into the bedroom, rummaging around until he finds the cell phone vibrating in his bloody dress shirt still strewn over a chair. 

He answers it immediately.

" _This better be Matt freaking Murdock or I'm calling the cops!_ " shouts a very distressed voice on the other line.

"Foggy, it's me. Everything's okay. Listen, I can explain but —"

" _I'm glad you're okay!_ " Foggy snarks angrily, barking like a chihuahua. " _Likewise, Karen and I have been calling you every minute trying to make sure you aren't getting axe murdered by a serial killer!_ "

Matt winces. It's been a long time since Foggy's sounded so mad. "I'm coming home, alright? Meet me there in thirty minutes. I can explain everything," he promises.

" _You damn well better, Murdock!_ "

"Thirty minutes, I'll be there," Matt reassures him.

He hangs up the call a few seconds later, sighing at the disaster that's about to unfold when he gets back home.

Pocketing the phone in his pants pocket, he makes his way back to the kitchen.

Frank eyes him warily when he steps back into view. "Everything okay?" 

"No," he says ruefully. "I have to go, Frank."

"Oh." Frank takes a slow sip of his coffee, sitting upright in the chair with nothing more than a muscle twitch in his jaw. "Can I walk you out at least?"

"Yeah," Matt agrees softly. "That would be nice."

There's a grunt of acknowledgement before he hears Frank stand up and walk over to him, arm extending into a gentlemen's pose. He starts to laugh when Matt gives him a sideway look. "What?" There's a large grin splayed across his face, he can _taste_ it. "This too old fashioned for you, Murdock?"

"Not at all." Matt finds himself returning that grin with his own mischievous smile, resembling more like a fox than anything. He extends his own arm, interlocking it with Frank's and oh my god, he's _blushing_. "Lead the way, Castle."

And Frank does.

They walk down the stairs, get an eyeful of puzzled looks and snorts before they're finally out the door and into the morning air. It feels nice to not be confined by a room.

They're walking down the sidewalk when he hears tires come to a screeching stop right in front of them on the corner of the block.

"I had a taxi come," Frank explains, dropping their arms. Matt feels the immediate retreating warmth and instinctively tries to stick closer to Frank — the fire that's been keeping him warm since last night. 

"Frank, you really didn't have to —"

Frank cuts him off, a sudden tenderness lacing his tone even as he gruffs out. "It's the least I could do." 

He can't prevent his voice from trembling. "Really, Frank. Thank you," he says and means it.

Frank nods jerkily, a melancholy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Hesitantly, he grabs the door to the taxi and opens it for him. 

Matt ignores the urge to pull him into the car with him. 

He gives Frank another smile, doesn't hide the sheer naked desperation on his face as he eases into the back seat like a deflating balloon. His hand automatically comes up to adjust his glasses, fingers trembling as he does so.

He moves to close the door — comes to terms this will be the last time he'll ever be near Frank Castle again, and —

"Wait."

A hand clasps his own, sliding the door open wider.

"Murdock." Frank swallows, voice wavering slightly as his heartbeat picks up like a race car. "Would you like to go on another date with me? Same time, same place tomorrow?" 

Matt is speechless.

"It's fine, if not," Frank adds quickly.

" _No_ ," Matt breathes on an exhale. Is this really happening? "No, I'd — I wouldn't mind," he reassures him with a relieved smile. "But it depends," he teases as the smile turns into a crooked grin. "Are you going to shoot me again?"

"Depends how I'm feelin', I guess," Frank counters thoughtfully and hums even as Matt feels the warming redness of his cheeks. 

"Then I'll see you there," he promises.

"Yup."

The taxi door is much lighter when he closes it for good this time, sealing it with an audible click. And even though he can't see Frank through the windows, he feels his heartbeat — his own almost synchronizing perfectly as the car moves forward and away.

Almost as a reminder, his hands drift hazily towards the collar of the dress shirt Frank had given him. His thumb brushes there, and he imagines it's Frank's lips instead.

Maybe Matt Murdock wasn't always an unlucky bastard after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent my weekend finishing this long ass chapter instead of doing my math homework. Worth it.
> 
>  **A couple of important updates:**  
>  1\. Originally this story was set to be mature rating, but I have decided it will labeled as explicit. Mind the additional tags being added.
> 
> 2\. Instead of updating weekly as I have been, I'm going to try and start pre planning two chapter at a time. I've noticed my writing gets sloppy in parts because all I'm thinking about is trying to get it done (which is the opposite of what I want, especially for a story like this). All in all, it makes it easier on me (especially since I don't have anyone to edit for me) and also makes me feel more productive. Therefore, updates may be a bit wonky for a couple weeks, but just know I'll actually be ahead as far as chapters even if I haven't posted them yet.
> 
> As always, happy reading and I hope the wait was worth it. ;) 
> 
> _Thank you again to all you kind individuals who continuously have been supporting this work in progress!_


	5. Begin Again (Keep Me Going)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy and Karen confront Matt. To ease their distress, Matt takes them out to Josie's. A familiar face finds Matt on the roof to his apartment.

Maybe Matt was purposefully stalling, or maybe it really was just his luck that the taxi driver had accidentally parked two blocks down from his actual destination — not that it didn't mattered, since he knew once he set foot in his apartment, he'd be smothered with Foggy's concern, shortly followed by his own inevitable death by strangulation. 

Yeah, maybe he was taking his sweet time to get to his apartment before his impending doom.

Who could blame him? Nobody could escape Foggy or Karen's wrath — heaven forbid both of them together. 

He knows they're in there waiting even before he smells the light aftershave that Foggy uses every morning, and the fresh floral scent of Karen's perfume that she kept strictly to use in the office when they had new clients. That thought makes Matt squint, straining to sniff for any other indicators that someone else had been there. Had they taken a new client in already?

His fingers skim the cold brass knob tenderly. He wills himself to take a deep breath, then pushes it open with a subtle squeak.

The reaction is almost immediate.

Karen must have been trying to warn him or something, because she sucks in a shaky breath and her hands fall mutely to her sides in defeat as he peeks his head in. A little to the left of her, he hears another familiar heartbeat.

"Hi, Matt. So glad you decided to join us on this lovely morning," Foggy drawls.

He laughs, but it's dry and filled with caution as he senses the sweet sarcasm dripping from his tone. "Hey Foggy." His head tilts slightly to Karen, a nervous smile inching its way across his face. "Hey Karen."

Funny enough, Karen's heartbeat is the loudest one sounding like a skittish rabbit ready to bolt.

Foggy keeps the calm composure, but the smile that he returns doesn't quite match his tone. "Do you care to tell us where the hell you were last night, or maybe even this morning for that matter?"

Matt laughs again, but it sounds more like a mocking scoff at his own predicament as he trails off. "That's a long story, Fogs… maybe we should —"

"That is _not_ your shirt." 

Foggy's heartbeat is accelerating now, his hand coming to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tries to keep his voice level. "Matthew Murdock, that is most definitely not your shirt."

Karen actually gapes, raising her head to look at the ceiling even as she lets out an amused puff of air. She's stifling a laugh, he knows.

"No," Matt confirms slowly. "It's — uh, not my shirt."

Karen lets out a hah. "That's fifty bucks, Foggy," she points out, strangely smug. "I'd like it up front and in cash," she adds with a little wag of her finger. 

"This is _rigged_ ," Foggy growls.

"Don't be a cheapskate," Karen chides with a flashy smile and a huff of laughter.

Honestly, Matt is so baffled that he's not quite sure what he's hearing. "You placed a bet on my blind date?" He finally asks, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Quite frankly, he never took them for gamblers.

"I did," Karen admits sheepishly, and there's that grin he's learned to love over the years. She shoots an accusatory look at Foggy, but it's full of fondness. "Oscar the grouch over there wouldn't stop calling me, going over scenarios that were likely never to happen so," she shrugs, "I decided to make a bet with him to ease his nerves."

He doesn't like where this is going. "Which was?"

Karen gives him a smirk. "I think you know, Matt."

Something hot splashes across his cheeks in waves, and it's even worse when he fixes his gaze down at the floor at the implication of her statement. God, it feels like he's back in elementary school again, nursing some schoolgirl crush.

As if to remind him that he's still here, Foggy coughs loudly. "This was before you called me," he informs him as he clears his throat, his expression suddenly hardening as he recalls what happened. "You know, before you basically told me everything was as right as rain, and didn't call back for seventeen hours after us repeatedly calling you to make sure your head was still attached to your body." 

He knew that was coming. 

"So you're mad," Matt states neutrally and as carefully as he can.

"Oh, no no _no_ —" Foggy smiles, but it's too bright and too happy, even for him. "I'm not mad, Matt. I'm freaking furious!"

And there it was.

"You know how close I was to calling 911?" His voice shifts, that accusatory tone cutting him down in one sweep as Foggy continues. " _This_ close!" And Matt knows he's gesturing with his fingers, but it's still funny to raise his eyebrow in response — as if to say, really?

"I know you see what I'm gesturing," Foggy hisses back, reading his expression like an open book. He backtracks for a moment, and there's that Foggy he's come to know and love. "I mean — not really see _see_ but you feel the air, vibrations or whatever. God!" He's cradling his face with his hand, wanting nothing more than to sink into the ground and never return.

Matt lets him take a minute. It's only polite.

"The point being, Matt," Foggy says with another long sigh. "The very least you could do was give me some kind of indication you were still alive. Maybe drop in with your devil suit, write a sticky note, or maybe, just maybe…" he leans in closer, teeth gritting. "Start by answering your _damn_ phone?"

Karen glances over at Matt, almost pitying him. "Would you answer your phone if you were getting laid?" comes her brutally honest question.

Foggy suddenly becomes doe-eyed, eyes clouding as if he was in the headlights of a speeding car coming full force without stop. "Excuse me," he reiterates slowly, "what?"

"Please, Foggy." Karen snorts this time, her tone metaphorically patting him on the head as if he was a small child. "Matt comes home wearing another man's shirt," she continues slowly, watching for his inevitable reaction. When she gets nothing but a blank stare, she sighs. "He's gone for seventeen hours, comes home in another guy's shirt, and won't answer any questions about him."

Foggy blinks twice. 

Karen raises an eyebrow.

Matt is tempted to jump out the window.

It would almost be comedic, the way Foggy stiffens and his eyes slink over to Matt's form as realization begins to settle in.

He can almost hear the gears grinding in Foggy's head, or maybe it's still his teeth.

There's an exhale of hot air, and then Foggy is giving Karen the biggest stink eye he can — It's obvious when Karen can't stop the faint snicker in return, her hand coming to her mouth to close off any more unwanted noises.

"Oh for crying out loud, _please_ —" Foggy begs then, berating himself for his own stupidity. "Tell me you didn't." Then, as Matt opens his mouth to reply, throws his hands up as if he were swatting at a fly. "No, wait. Don't answer that. I need a drink first," he admits with a low groan.

"There's beer in the fridge," Matt offers placidly, gesturing to the right where he knows he keeps the cold beverages.

Foggy's look is something of mocking ire. "I need something stronger than that," he mutters, sounding deflated.

Well, that was fair.

He finds himself swallowing stale air, a muscle in his face twitching out of discomfort.

"Karen and I worry about you, y'know?" Foggy says after a moment, and there's a note in his tone that makes Matt's chest swell in warmth. The affection in his voice is distant, but still very much there.

"I know," Matt replies hurriedly — careful to keep his tone as empathetic as possible. He does know, and that's what makes them so special and unworthy of Matt's friendship. His heart twists violently — they don't deserve the crap they have to put up with. "I know I haven't always been honest with you guys either," he admits as his lips press into a firm line. "But I'm trying to change that." 

"So be honest with us now," Karen urges him gently, her eyes flickering across Matt's distressed features. "We're here for you. You know that," she reminds him with a candid smile that's fueled by nothing but kindness and understanding. 

"I know," Matt repeats hollowly. "And I'll start being more… open and honest," he articulates slowly, the words foreign and sluggish on his tongue. 

They both smile at his feeble attempt, gratitude masking the ludicrously of their situation.

"So start now, and start spilling," Foggy adds belatedly. "And don't leave a _damn_ thing out, you hear me Murdock?"

Matt gives him a half smile, his eyes flickering across the ceiling as if he had accepted his ill fate. "Where should I start?" He asks genuinely, a hint of exasperation still lingering in the back of his throat as he sighs in compliance.

"Well, I'd still love a description of the guy so I can kick his ass," Foggy drawls innocently, tone flat.

Matt laughs then, his teeth flashing for a moment as he tries to imagine Foggy beating on Frank. If he were to place bets, all his money would be on Foggy ironically. 

"Fogs," he tuts knowingly, bringing his fingers to tap at the glasses fashioned neatly across the bridge of his nose. Despite Foggy knowing about his disability, Matt still felt as though he had to explain this to Foggy everytime it involved describing his version of "hot people." 

"I call bullshit," Foggy announces smugly, looking Matt square in the eye as he raises a finger and deliberately pokes at his chest with two sharp digs. "You just don't want to tell me cause you're afraid I'll kick your boyfriend's ass," he punctuates with two more corresponding pokes.

"No," Matt says hesitantly, lips tugging upwards slightly as he adds, "just want to protect your ego."

"Hey!" Foggy protests, his eyes flashing in defense. "Now listen here Matt —"

" _Uh uh_ ," Karen speaks up, her hand coming to push them apart slightly as if they were quarreling siblings. "Jesus, ease up you guys," she says. Then to Matt's delight, leans in closer, a ghost of a smile brushing over her lips as she whispers, "really though, what did he look like?"

His hair was short — but not too short. Probably black hair. His body was muscular, well toned and definitely fit. He smelled of gunpowder, and the faintest hint of sweet whiskey. His fingers were calloused, but still surprisingly soft and gentle, and those lips — God. Warm, pliant, well rounded and plump and _perfect_ —

His tongue darts out automatically, swiping across his own lips out of pure instinct. It didn't help that Frank's shirt was still wrapped around his body like a suffocating blanket. Being this sensitive to sounds and smells had its downfall, and of course that only began to start when he had met Frank.

"Tall, dark and handsome," he offers up at last with a sinful grin.

"Karen!" Foggy splutters, huffing up a storm. 

Karen laughs — a short burst of warm giggles that are soft and pleasant. "What? I just had to know." 

"I thought you just said you can't see what he looked like!" Foggy says, incredulity literally bulging out of his eyes as he turns to blink stupidly at Matt. 

"In a manner of speaking, I couldn't," Matt replies dismissively, taking note in the way Foggy's mouth opens and shuts like a fish out of water. 

"In a manner of speaking? You just told Karen — you said he —'' Foggy stammers, trailing off and looking more and more like the kid who lost his mother at a carnival. 

God, the laugh bubbling out from his throat is much needed and freeing.

It takes him a minute to regain his composure, but it's harder when he can hear Foggy's heartbeat stutter in and out of rhythm as if his own heart couldn't believe it either.

"I'm retiring as your wingman," Foggy announces flatly with a growl that resembles more like an angry kitten than anything.

"Hire me next," Karen chimes in with another laugh. "I promise I'll be more discreet when trying to stalk you around the city," she reassures him with a sly wink.

"Discreet isn't exactly Foggy's forté," Matt agrees sullenly, head tilting as if he really were contemplating Karen's offer.

"I _was_ discreet," Foggy bites back next to him.

Matt just raises both of his eyebrows derisively, a thin and definitely forced smile spreading as he gives him this arrogant look and turns away.

"What?" Foggy gruffs impatiently. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing," Matt says hurriedly — knows that Foggy has taken the bait when his face scrunches up in suspicion.

"Matt!"

" _What_?" Matt offers, mimicking Foggy's tone a second ago. "You want the whole story, right?" He asks, to which Foggy nods slowly. "Then you have to wait until we can get you as drunk as God allows," he says with a lazy smile.

"That bad, huh," Foggy grouses warily. He's combing a hand through his hair nervously, head swiveling to meet Karen's gaze for confirmation.

Matt doesn't give him a verbal answer, instead opting for a small shrug even though he knows that he's only delaying the inevitable. Maybe he should've started off with: "Yep, and my date ended up shooting three people including myself! Should be on the news, so stay tuned and await the demise of the lawyer Matt Murdock!"

If Foggy didn't kill him, Karen would. 

Honestly, it would be a mercy at this point. 

"Josie's then," Karen says, nodding eagerly even though she already knows the answer.

There's the sound of fabric being dragged across skin, and then buttons that are nimbly secured with nothing but a quick sweep of air. They're getting on their coats, he notes dully.

"Yep," Foggy confirms with a cheeky smile, emphasizing the P with a loud pop. "Matt's paying this time though," he clarifies with a snort as he brushes past Matt and opens the door for them.

Matt is more than happy to oblige. After all, it might be his last drink.

"One thing," he says, pausing. Matt moves briskly, rounding the corner and disappearing into his bedroom. There's the slow drag of a drawer being opened, and his fingers find the familiar silkiness of a long strip of fabric. As if on autopilot, his fingers are already looping it around his collar, sealing it with a sharp tug to ensure it'll stay for awhile.

He returns, a crooked smile splaying delicately across his lips. 

"A red tie?" Foggy comments skeptically.

"Not all of us can rock a leather coat," Matt points out dryly, his suspicions being confirmed when Foggy shifts again — the fabric sounding much more tight and the distinct smell of it becoming much more prominent.

"Fair enough," Foggy says with a sigh, but Matt swears he hears a speck of pride in his tone.

"I do fancy Foggy in some leather," Karen swoons patronizingly with a sharp whistle, throwing Foggy a kiss as she slips around the corner with a muffled laugh.

Her dress shoes click away softly.

Foggy scowls. "Is it just me or has Karen gotten sassier since returning from London?" He grumbles under his breath, knowing full well that Matt can hear.

He shrugs. "Well, she probably didn't have anyone to boss around while she was there," he muses.

A loud voice downstairs interrupts them, voice light but firm. "I'm not Daredevil, but I can definitely hear every word you're saying you know!" There's a pointed cough that resonates up and through the hall.

Foggy's lips purse in amusement, ducking his head in acknowledgement. He gives a slight approving nod, as if congratulating her for managing to eavesdrop on their conversation while she was down there.

"Better hurry down," Matt advises with a low chuckle as he hears Karen shuffle her way back up a couple steps, checking to see if they are continuing to talk about her.

"Yeah, yeah. See you down there," Foggy huffs as he walks a couple paces forward, teetering between the hallway and the doorway teasingly as he gives a childish wave and a wide undeniably cheesy smile.

Matt returns the awkward wave with his own, listening to the way the footsteps drudge down the steps and the heartbeats slowly fade away into the raucous symphony of New York city.

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

*** * ***

The ride to Josie's was interesting to say the least.

Sandwiched between Foggy and Karen, Matt was definitely rethinking his life choices. There was a time where he would be grateful to sit with his friends, shoulders brushing, their heartbeats so close it felt like he was at his own personal rock concert — but not now.

 _Jesus_. Definitely not now.

"Didn't we, at one point in time, all fit in one cab?" Foggy mutters irritably under his breath, shifting uncomfortably against Matt which in turn makes him shuffle even closer to Karen to try and ease the growing tension.

God, it feels exactly what playing dominoes is like. One falling into another, causing a chain reaction: the result being extra snarky idiots stuck in a taxi until they reached their destination.

And poor Matt, stuck in between.

"Yeah, but that was before we started eating your cooking, Foggy," Karen points out dryly. Her mouth curls in crude honesty as she wiggles up against Matt, her warmth seeping up against him like a crescendoing tidal wave. 

It reminds him of the heated night that Frank and him had shared.

It doesn't help that everywhere he goes, he can still smell Frank — it clings to his skin like his own personal perfume, every inhale distantly reminding him of his painful reality. He really shouldn't have taken Frank's shirt. Distractions like that would get him killed if all he could think about was Frank Castle and his ridiculously intoxicating smell that followed him everywhere.

A sharp jab to his ribs interrupts his thoughts.

"Ow," Matt says in a flat undertone. 

"See? He wasn't even paying attention," Foggy chirps in observation, nudging him again with the same movement.

"It's hard to pay attention when all I can smell is onions from your lunch two days ago, and Karen's perfume that she uses when we have a new client," Matt states with an off-hand shrug, even though he knows it's a lie.

"Would you stop doing that?" Foggy huffs, exasperation lining his body as he gestures to the little room they have in front of them.

"Doing what?" Matt asks, as if he doesn't already know. 

"Stop —" Foggy whips his head to peer over at Karen, as if in disbelief. "Smelling us! _Reading_ us! It's kinda creepy, Matt."

"Well it's not like I can turn it off," Matt snaps back, returning the huff with his own indignant scoff — stiffening as he inhales the overwhelming stenches even deeper. To put him through even further misery, the fragrances begin to mix. It makes his tongue rebel and buck against the sweet and tanginess of each breath that fills his lungs. 

God, onions and perfume did not go well together. It makes his stomach churn — the bacon, eggs and toast Amy had made that morning suddenly inching its way back up.

"Besides." Matt clears his throat once the nausea rolls away, his tone rising a fraction to indicate his frustration. "It seems you two had no intention of telling me you picked up a client while I was gone."

The signs had been obvious from the start, and he takes a moment to relish when both of their heartbeats spike in confirmation. 

Finally, Karen speaks. "We were going to tell you," she explains quietly. "But you were busy, and well —"

"We thought you were getting murdered," Foggy interjects with about as much gentleness as a feral cat. He's rolling his eyes almost automatically, his body shifting against Matt again as if trying to gage how upset he is. "Turns out, you stole his shirt and got out unscathed," Foggy states dismissively with a sarcastic shrug.

"That's not — I didn't —"

"Please, Murdock. Save the story when I'm drunk out of my mind," Foggy manages as he puts up a hand to pause the conversation there, a groan slipping out as he begins to realize just how much he doesn't want to deal with this right now. "I don't think I could handle it sober." 

"Fine," Matt sulks gruffly. "Drinks first, stories later."

They both hum in agreement, sagging against each other unhappily.

It's only a couple minutes later when Karen leans in near his ear and asks, "so what was he like?" 

"Well —" Matt starts, and can't help the thrill of elation that zings up his spine as he lets out a breathless laugh. "He's a stubborn bastard, but there's something about him that just —" and he stops, ponders his next words carefully. "He thrills me."

Foggy's eyes slide around to peer daggers aimed right towards his own, an eyebrow arching in bleak horror. "Did you just really tell me that the same guy that probably kidnapped you is the same one that _thrills_ you?"

"He didn't _really_ kidnap me," Matt grumbles low, voice bouncing off the front of his suit jacket and into the confined space that they're breathing in. It sounds twice as loud in his ears.

"So you admit it!" Foggy hisses, and Matt is painfully aware that his friend is still very much _sober_ and still equally pissed. 

"No he... it's complicated," Matt says as he struggles for the exact right words — if those even existed. 

"I knew it," Foggy continues in a grating tone, his hand coming up to cradle his face in his hands as he lets out a very animalistic grunt. "God, Matt! Seriously, what the hell?"

To his left, Karen's breathing hitches ever so slightly.

Matt shakes his head, tries to ignore the way he slowly feels his walls inching their way back up. "Hey, sir?" He prompts, leaning forward as much as allowed and angling his head towards where the driver is seated comfortably. "How much longer?"

Foggy's mouth snaps shut, as if suddenly realizing that they weren't all alone in the vehicle.

The driver must be peering up to look at the street signs, because it takes a moment before he finally says, "five minutes, give or take."

Matt nods slowly, easing his way back into the seat and cringing as he has to forcefully shove himself back against the both of them to try and reclaim his spot.

They sit there in silence for a good minute, the roar of traffic dull to even Matt's ears.

After a moment of curious glances back and forth, Foggy finally speaks.

"Matt, buddy." Foggy's breath is cool on his skin, his gaze fixated on Matt's neutral expression of staring out into the space. He's always known Matt too well — can read him like a damn open book. Matt shouldn't be surprised, but it always amazes him just how caring and perceptive he can be in certain situations. 

That's what makes it so much harder when Matt knows he's hurting him in some way.

Foggy lets out a slow exhale. "I just want you to be careful," he says. His tone is mellow, voice low and soft as he peers up at Matt with those round chestnut colored eyes. 

Matt's head cocks ever so slightly. "I will be." He pauses. "I _am_."

Soft fingers slide across his arm, coming to an abrupt stop as it settles fully into his own open palm. The scent of perfume wafts delicately in the air with the movement.

"We know you are," Karen says on a ragged exhale. "Just —" she falters for a moment, her lip trembling but not in fear. "We don't want you to get hurt."

Matt presses his lips together. "Physically or emotionally?"

"Preferably both," Foggy chimes in next to him, giving Matt a good old jab in the ribs again. A warning.

"I think you're both forgetting who you're in a taxi with," Matt reminds them with a grumble and a flash of teeth. Maybe if he had the suit with him, they would be well versed in just exactly who they were dealing with.

"Ah, yes." Foggy hums a little, incoherent notes that resemble a children's lullaby. "What was it again? Hell's Devil?" As Matt laughs ironically, Foggy just grins alongside Karen — sharp toothed and well aware of the ridiculousness. 

"Red Horny Man?" Foggy tries again with a shrug, making an effort to stick his pointer fingers on top of his head and waggling them scornfully.

That elicits an open mouthed gasp from Karen, her hand drawing back and away from Matt as she tries to stifle a giggle that's bubbling in her chest. She fails miserably.

"That's not — you just —" Matt can't even form a proper sentence because he's laughing so hard, a series of low chuckles that are unrestrained and hearty. 

"What?" Foggy asks between their laughing, a wide smirk curved and wicked across his face. "It fits, right?"

"Sure," Matt croons approvingly. 

"Absolutely!" Karen nods, lips tugging upwards in a grin. "But Matt," she coos softly in his ear. "What was spending the night with him like?"

His laugh turns into a trailed off cough that gets stuck in his throat. He has to swallow the knot there before working his voice again. "Well, he was very —"

Foggy splutters, eyes swiveling back and forth between them. "No, no. We are not talking about _this_ , right here, in this taxi."

"I was going to say 'accommodating' Foggy," Matt says dryly. 

"Uh huh." Foggy's tone is enough to indicate how he feels on the matter.

"Your heartbeat skipped two beats when Karen asked the question, and it's continuing to race faster and faster as I talk about this subject," Matt states clinically; he lets boredom drip from his own tone. 

"Murdock," Foggy warns. "Stop. Listening. To. My. Heart."

Matt lets out an exasperated sigh. "It's not my fault that we're stuck in this taxi, and all I can smell is onions and perfume and hear both of your hearts going _da da dum_ everytime I mention him and anything that even remotely —"

"Mr. Murdock?" comes a meek voice from the driver's seat. "We're here, sir."

All three of them freeze, as if just realizing that the car was strangely quiet and still.

"Yes, of course." He clears his throat, awaiting for Karen or Foggy to move first.

The door on his left swings open, letting in the fresh air of the city and the rambunctious noises that each had their own stories to whisper in Matt's ears. Stepping out of the door and feeling his feet plant firmly into the sidewalk was grounding in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.

He can hear the LED's buzzing faintly in the background, and the clinking of glasses and silverware from inside Josie's. It sounded like a busy afternoon.

"Shall we?" Karen asks next to him, raising an eyebrow.

"We shall," Foggy affirms. 

Arms locking together, side by side, they walk through the front doors and into the bar.

*** * ***

The bar is unusually busy tonight. 

It's humming with life, glasses being swept across the counters with carelessness that only Josie herself could top. The smell is incredibly rich, which Matt can only assume means that there's a lot of hard liquor being passed around from stool to stool — twirling before settling thickly into the clear shots lined neatly on the black marble trim. With all the overlapping heartbeats and smell of alcohol, Matt estimates that they've just put the place at full capacity. 

It's been awhile since he had visited Josie's, but it still feels familiar all the same.

Karen's arm is helping to guide them to their usual spots, up front and by the TV broadcasting whatever was hot in Hell's Kitchen. They both know he doesn't really need help getting to their seats, but the movement is so engraved and automatic in their heads that Matt doesn't bother pushing her away.

"Two beers for the lady and I, one margarita for the gentlemen please," Foggy says as he sits down on the cushioned stool directly in the middle.

There's a distinctive huff, and it must be Josie because of her reluctance as she bends down and rummages through the fridge below. There's the noise of an audible clink, and two beers are placed neatly in front of Foggy who beams happily.

"Thanks, Josie. The place is looking great as always," he comments endearingly as he reaches for one.

" _Mhm_ ," comes her gruff response. "Just stay out of trouble, and make sure you don't leave without paying this time, yeah?"

"Don't worry, Josie. It's going on my tab tonight," Matt reassures her. To his right, Karen snickers as she reaches for the bottle.

"Figures," Josie replies with a snort. "Anyways, gimme a minute and I'll have your drink. Want salt?"

"Sure," Matt says with a small smile. "Salt would be fine."

Foggy hums contently as he brings the rim of the bottle to his parted lips, greedily drinking down several swallows of the shimmering liquid before letting out a pleased ah. He keeps his grip loose on the beer, swings it back and forth a little as he finally says, "story time, Matt."

"Already?" Matt frowns, but his tone is playful as he listens for any indication that he's even a smidge drunk. "Trust me, a couple swallows isn't going to cut it, Fogs."

There's a grating scoff. " _God_ , you make it sound like I'm going to lob your head off and sell it on the black market." Begrudgingly, Foggy raises his drink again and takes another long swallow. "Seriously, Matt. Should I be concerned?"

"I don't know," Matt admits honestly.

"That's not really reassuring," Karen points out with a tight lipped smile as she nurses her drink slowly.

Matt chooses to remain silent, instead focusing on the busy environment around them. 

There's the slight whiff of a cheap and extremely pungent aroma — it reminds Matt of what 'Grandma's' house would probably smell like — and then there's a nudge and a short cut off noise as the glass slides across the counter to sit neatly by Matt's hand. 

"Thanks again, Josie."

He doesn't bother looking for any type of acknowledgement in return.

The first sip calms his nerves, and he allows himself to bask in the sharp tang and burst of flavor that coats his tongue. He can taste the drops of lemon juice buried there like a hidden gem, biting back with such a ferocity that it almost feels like the drink has a mind of its own. The salt pebbles sprinkled graciously all over the rim are exactly what helps balance out the sourness, and it's nice to swipe several of the white pebbles into his mouth and suck on them like candy. 

It's even nicer that he doesn't have any open wounds around his mouth like a split lip.

He smells the intoxication before a hand is firmly pressing on his shoulder — the one still healing, of course — in a frivolous manner.

Matt is no stranger to pain, but he's so absorbed in his drink and the buzzing environment around them that it takes a minute to register what's actually happening presently. The jerk that he does isn't large by any means, but it's enough that even a drunk Foggy becomes suspicious and worried as he yanks his hand back as if he were burned, eyes a bit unfocused but sharp.

"Did he give that to you?" Foggy demands, his voice raising only a fraction even though his breathing is a mess of uneven rasps.

A wave of nausea runs through his body. " _Jesus_. Foggy, listen —"

"Did he hurt you, Matt?" Foggy asks, quiet and methodically. Even Karen shifts her gaze away, chewing furiously on her bottom lip.

"I hit him first." He takes a deep breath, throat threatening to close up forever. "It was a misunderstanding, okay?"

Thank God for beer because if Foggy wasn't drunk right now, he would surely be punching Matt right now, trying to pound some sense into his thick skull.

"A misunderstanding?" Foggy stammers. "So what? He hit you back hard enough to leave a good ol' bruise?" There's a waver in his voice, an accusation amidst the horror that Foggy is probably witnessing.

It's no use trying to hide anything from them anymore.

"He shot me."

"... what?"

"Matt," Karen whispers. "Matt, I —"

Foggy growls so deep that Matt can feel the sheer power and vibrations that are emitted. "Hell _fucking_ no."

"Foggy, please." Their gazes are burning into his skin, etching into the very fiber of his being. These are the times that's he's grateful he can't see — to be painfully oblivious to their expressions — the way that they're looking at him like he's incapable of taking care of himself. Sometimes it was way too easy to slide into the role of a true blind man to hide from the world.

"Matt, are you even listening to yourself?" Foggy closes his eyes as if trying to stop the incoming headache. "He shot you!"

"He helped patch me up and found somewhere for me to lay low —"

"In his _bed_?" Foggy demands, and this time he can't help the twinge of hurt that stabs his heart in one thrust.

"Goddammit Foggy, it wasn't like that!" Matt hisses in retaliation, suddenly finding his fists clenched so hard that it feels strange to try and release the tension when he realizes. 

"I think shooting someone is pretty straightforward," Foggy snaps. "He could have killed you!" His tone is full of mockery when he asks scathingly, "do you even care?" 

Matt stiffins, and works his jaw around his anger. "I do care."

There's a loud clink — a bottle being slammed against the counter — and both of them swivel their heads towards the sound. 

Karen's lips are tightened, stretched so thin that it's hard to even distinguish them. Her teeth are still sunk deep into the skin there, as if contemplating whether or not to haul both of their asses out the door.

"Matt," Karen says at last. "You promised us you would be careful." Something like hurt flashes across her eyes, every inhale a ragged breath. "You _promised_."

Matt's expression is vaguely neutral. "I'm being careful, Karen." His tongue is heavy like led, and there's a bitterness that continues to linger there like an annoying fly. "He's not a bad man," he says softly, hoping to appease them both.

"I don't _care_ ," Foggy growls. "He shot you on a fucking coffee date. In an alternate universe, you could have died."

Foggy had a point. The most irritating part is that Foggy _always_ had a point. Frank was dangerous, he had said so himself, but Matt didn't run from dangerous — he reveled in it. The thrill, the chase, the adrenaline. Most of all, he got to protect the city he loved — the people he loved. It was dangerous, it was gritty and dark, but Matt would be lying to himself if he said he didn't gravitate towards those kinds of situations. 

He's fully aware the ludicrity of his own situation. Frank had shot him, had the chance to kill him even, but the thing is, he didn't. No matter how much they argued about morals, butted heads on just about anything that involved the wellbeing of Hell's Kitchen, Frank hadn't pursued the thought of hurting him. It's not like he didn't have the chance to either, considering the very warm and vivid memory of sharing a bed that resurfaced in his head like a big red balloon. 

Instead, he had offered him — quite forcefully — a place to stay and recooperate until he was more equipped to go out. Hell, Frank had even gave him a shirt.

You could have said that it should be even now, considering Frank had undoubtedly shot him, but Matt didn't necessarily see it that way.

Underneath all that tough, hardened exterior, Frank cared for him. He might even be considered a _good man_ in some ways.

Nothing can forgive what comes out of his mouth next. 

"You guys were the ones who wanted me to go on a blind date with him." It's not an accusation, but a simple retelling of the facts. It still doesn't make him feel any less guilty even as he feels the tiniest bit of wetness at the corner of his eye — a sad pitiful penance for what he decides to say next. "You wanted me to stop being _him_ and instead 'live my life' as Matt Murdock," he continues sharply. "But the Devil is just as apart of my life as Matt. I can't change that, and if this was all just a ploy to get me to go out with other people, then you have no one to blame but yourselves for the bullet in my shoulder."

Their looks are almost as surprised as Matt's own. He can tell when both of their heartbeats flatline for two solid seconds, agony ripping through their bodies at the hand of none other than Matt Murdock.

It's not fair to them. It never has been.

"I'm sorry."

He tries to ignore the way his voice is cracking and the way his mouth feels full of sand. The burn of the alcohol in his throat isn't enough to stop him from listening to both of their heartbeats.

Karen's is elevated slightly while Foggy's is a drum of erratic thumps.

"Excuse me, please." Matt pushes backwards, the stool scuffling across the planks with a loud screech.

It takes him a minute to realize that it's not white silence that's screaming in his ears. The whole bar is deadly silent, as if holding a breath.

Matt doesn't know how long people have been listening, and quite frankly he doesn't care.

"I have to go," Matt says a bit quieter this time, an edge still sharp in his tone. "Drinks are still on me."

He doesn't bother upholding the blind man ruse, and instead stands up and begins his walk out the doors with a renewed sense of confidence in his movement.

The doors shut tight behind him.

His fingers feel numb as he dials the number for a cab.

It should be reassuring that he's getting as far away as he can from them, but he knows that's not truly where the problem lies. Even as he eases himself back into the cushion of the seat and tells the driver his address, it doesn't feel right. None of it does.

Matt is well aware of the fact that he is a shitty friend, and an even shittier person to deal with in general. It still amazes him how Foggy and Karen continue to care for him even after all his lies had started to unfurl and bite them back in the ass later down the line. 

In a way, he knew he could never quite repay that debt. No matter how many times he saved them or the city, it would never be _enough_.

He doesn't realize how deep in thought he is until the driver shifts loudly in his seat, eyebrows raised as he unlocks the doors with a click. 

He chucks a twenty and doesn't look back.

The ascension up the stairs and around the corner is the slowest and excruciating feeling. Every step feels like there's a ball and chain attached to each leg, dragging along the ground as he shuffles the last couple steps without even realizing it.

His apartment is dark, of course, when he slides the key in and nudges the door open.

He half expects Foggy and Karen to have already beat him here, patiently waiting for him — waiting to talk him down. Chins lifted up, smiles disappointed, but a glimmer of hope still twinkling in their eyes.

It's a ridiculous thought, especially when all he hears is the traffic from down the street and the chilly breeze that brushes past him from an open window.

_An open window?_

His suspicion is confirmed when he moves towards the kitchen, hands reaching out to tap at the window that is most certainly not there and not closed.

A fire escape is securely attached on this side of the building, he notes.

He knows this isn't the time for carelessness, but he can't stop himself from finding the cool handle to his fridge, pulling it open with little effort and leaning in to grasp at the farthest drink in the back.

It's a special case of beer he had ordered online with the help of Foggy. It was mostly all alcoholic, and definitely some of the strongest stuff on the market — definitely not a casual drink. Usually he reserved it for special occasions, like when he had put Fisk behind bars that night when they had a beatdown. 

But tonight, it's calling his name.

He pops the lid off — knows it's too late to go back now — and takes a long sip of the concentrated liquid.

It burns, but it feels so good.

He doesn't know when exactly he climbs up the fire escape, footsteps ringing dully in his ears with each metallic clang, but all he can feel is the city wrapped around him like a blanket. He hears the noises, each polluted breath he sucks in as his lungs ache with lonliness, and the pleasant buzzing that's droning on and on in his head.

It's overwhelming in a good way.

When he reaches the rooftop, he crouches down, legs propped up as he brings the bottle to his lips again with a sloppy kiss. The bite he gets back is satisfying, so he chases another with a long swallow. 

When some kind of self reflection kicks in, he takes a deep breath, and is pleased to find that the smell of Frank fills his nostrils. It's an involuntary reaction, he convinces himself, as he tries to pull the shirt tighter to his body, hunting for the warmth that was shared that night.

It must be another hour where he just lays there, listening to the song of the city and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

"Mind if I join you?" 

Frank.

His movements are sluggish when he pivots, head angling towards the sound of the painfully familiar grunt. A wave of embarassment rushes over him at being found like this — vulnerable and _weak_. 

At this point, a bullet in the brain would be a blessing.

Frank stops a couple steps behind him, cautious as ever. "Murdock?" He calls quietly, and Matt is sure he can see the red flush that's angrily making its way up his neck and into his cheeks. 

He blames the chilliness.

He offers Frank a lazy smile, the pleasant buzzing in his head fading into a bit of sobriety. 

"Hi, Frank."

"If this is a bad time —" Frank starts warily, heartbeat fluttering for a second as his gaze rakes over his body.

"No, it's fine." Matt gestures to the spot next to him and listens as Frank's boots drag across the hard concrete, gait steady as ever. There's a sudden warmth beside him, and in his drunken state, Matt is doing everything he can not to push up against him and search for that burning fire he's craving.

It takes him a minute for his brain to catch up. 

"How did you know where I lived?" Matt asks, raising an eyebrow as he recalls the open window he distinctively remembers closing.

"A soldier never reveals his secrets," Frank muses. That facade slowly crumbles as Matt shoots him a look. "Okay, okay. Just went to your law firm and inquired about you, that's all."

That makes Matt nearly lose his grip on the bottle still clenched in his hand. "Who answered?" He manages after a moment.

"Mr. Nelson himself," Frank informs him with a sharp grin. "Nice kid, by the way. He sends his regards."

Foggy had given Frank his address? No, that couldn't be right. Something wasn't quite adding up, especially since it sounded like Foggy wanted nothing more than to kick Frank's ass.

Frank must be reading the incredulous look spread out across his face, because he purses his lips and grunts in return. "Don't worry, Murdock. We just talked for awhile is all. Nothin' to worry 'bout."

"Talked," Matt repeats hastily. 

"Startin' to think you're deaf as well," Frank huffs but there's no heat behind it.

Matt snorts and turns away. "Just find it hard to believe, that's all."

Frank's shoulders lift an inch before falling back down. "Granted, the kid was goddamn _plastered_ when we spoke," he admits tautly as he shifts on the concrete to try and get more comfortable. 

That might explain it.

"How did you find me?" Matt rasps when the burn in the back of his throat has subsided momentarily. 

Frank shrugs again. "Saw the open window, figured you must've climbed up onto the roof." Ah, right. That makes more sense.

Matt lets out a ragged exhale. "I see," he says levelly. 

The beer in his hand feels abnormally heavier than usual, considering there's only about half of it left, maybe more. Goddamn, this stuff was strong.

Matt swallows dry, still feeling the burn in the back of his throat like a hot branding iron. When Frank makes no move to continue the conversation, Matt sets his jaw tight and takes another sip of the shimmering liquid. "Seriously, Frank. Why are you here?" 

He doesn't mean to be rude, but he really didn't expect to run into anyone tonight. While company is nice, being drunk in the company of Frank is less so. It makes him feel defenseless and vulnerable, two things that Matt feels ashamed of. The last thing he needs is for Frank to look at him differently, or treat him differently after this night.

It's the steady pumping of Frank's heart that pulls him out of those feelings, yanking him back to reality and grounding him.

"You left this back in that alley," Frank says finally. He extends his hand towards Matt's, brushes against his knuckles softly, and nudges something cylindrical and short into his own palm. At first he thinks it's a baton, the ones he uses as Daredevil. Cold hearted fear rests heavily in his gut, and he's really tempted to arm himself as best he can and just get _out_ of here —

His thumb accidentally slides over one of the mechanical parts, and it extends with an audible click.

His cane.

Frank came all the way here just to deliver his cane?

There's a long exhale, followed by a slight shortening of breath as Frank lets out a strained hum. "It was on the news," he informs him evenly. "The shooting."

Shit.

"Frank, if they found my prints or anything —"

There's a low rumble, and it takes him a minute to realize that the vibrations he's feeling is Frank _laughing_. Hearty gruff chuckles that would be endearing for just about any time except for now.

"I'm dying to know what's so funny," Matt bites back when it seems like Frank is finally getting a rein on himself. There's a knowing smile that tugs at Frank's lips, he feels it almost like a sharpened blade. 

"Easy, Murdock." Frank puts his hands up as if in surrender. "They only found what I wanted them to find."

Matt blinks slowly, still trying to process just what exactly is going on. "So you altered a crime scene," he concludes. "You know, I could have you _arrested_ for that."

"You could," Frank agrees and even seems to entertain the idea. "But you won't." It's the smug confidence that makes Matt scowl in defiance, especially since his heart didn't even skip a beat at the threat.

He folds up his cane begrudgingly, setting it next to him, the warmth from Frank's fingers still imprinted on the grip.

Frank clears his throat awkwardly. "I didn't know if all blind men had a specially made cane for themselves, so I just wanted to make sure y'know? Didn't want you — uh, fumblin' 'round or anything like that."

The cane he used had history, and it would've been a shame for him to lose it on a whim. However, the truth is that mostly all canes made for blind men were around the same. Matt could've had a new one ordered to ship out tomorrow, and that would be that.

It's the fact that Frank had went back just to make sure. 

"Thank you," Matt says and means it.

"Don't mention it."

Matt's mouth lifts into a smile for a few seconds before bringing the beer to his lips again, teeth clinking against the rim as his arm shakes against his will.

They sit there in silence for several minutes.

It's only when Frank shifts again that Matt realizes he's subconsciously inching closer, the fire still burning bright. He forces himself to pull away, eyes closing briefly against the intense throb in his shoulder. He doesn't know why it's hurting now.

"So, bad night?"

Matt snorts. An understatement in all regards, but right nonetheless. "Yeah," he admits.

Frank nods slowly, and there's something in the way his tone shifts into a softer register — it's light, but still has that loveable gruffness. "Care to talk about it?"

"Not really."

Frank doesn't pry. "Okay," he says.

Matt raises the bottle again.

"You gonna offer me any of that?" Frank asks, a smile hinting around the corners of his mouth. It makes Matt pause, lowering the bottle clinically as he raises an eyebrow at the directness of his demand.

"Having a bad night?" Matt chirps in return, mimicking Frank's tone with a soft rumble of laughter.

"Yeah," Frank divulges as he tilts his head slightly. "You could say that."

"Care to talk about it?"

"Nope."

Matt laughs again. "Okay," he echoes back, hesitantly passing the bottle into Frank's open hand.

Frank takes three large swallows, visibly reeling back in surprise once he's finished. He hands it back hurriedly, wiping at the drops that were left behind on his lips with the back of his hand. " _Goddamn_ , Murdock." He whistles in revelation. 

"Yeah, it's strong," Matt points out dryly.

"That's good shit right there," Frank says with a crooked grin. "It'd be a shame to pass that up." 

Matt hums contently in agreement.

A harsh breeze flies past their heads with cold regard, sweeping up their clothes with one gust. Matt feels his tie flap in response as he reaches to flatten it against his chest again, fingers fumbling with it for a moment.

"How long you thinkin' of stayin' up here?" Frank muses quietly, turning his head to blow hot air against Matt's cheek. 

"I don't know," comes his hesitant response.

"Okay," Frank relents. "Then give me a minute, 'kay?"

There's shuffling, and Matt hears Frank descend down the fire escape again in a hurry. There's rustling of fabric, muffled curses being thrown, and then the steady thumping of approaching footsteps heading back up again. 

His boots scuff against the concrete, stopping close enough to breathe uneven alocholic puffs of air against Matt's neck.

"Here," Frank grunts and there's something in his hands that's weight is light and sounds familiar —

A large blanket is abruptly thrown over his head. He's so surprised that he doesn't quite know how to articulate what he's thinking.

"Didn't know where you kept any blankets, so I just ended up ripping them off your bed," Frank informs him and sounds only slightly apologetic. He's giving Matt a lazy grin as he settles next to him, pulling his own blanket around his shoulders like a makeshift cape.

"Does this mean you're staying?" Matt asks suspiciously, careful to keep his expression neutral.

Frank counters it by asking, "do you want me too?"

He ponders the question for a split second. 

"Yes," he decides.

"Okay," Frank says a bit softer. Seems they've been saying that word an awful lot tonight.

Something rushes through Matt — he isn't sure if it's his body finally succumbing to the strength of the alcohol, or if it's Frank that's making him suddenly light headed. All he knows is that he feels an intense tidal wave of comfort and safety that's rippling through him in precise increments.

Frank's heartbeat is accelerating like crazy, and it isn't until Frank shifts that Matt realizes he's trying to accomdate for him _laying_ his head on his shoulder.

Both of the blankets drape over them like a tent, preserving their warmth as Matt leans further into that fire, lost in the torrent and haze of the alcohol.

Or maybe it's Frank that's he really drunk on.

He doesn't care at this point.

Frank's breathing has evened out now, and maybe if Matt was a tiny bit more sober, he would be more freaked out at the calloused hand that's rubbing tight circles into his shoulder. 

He breathes in Frank, smells the beer that is still lingering in his mouth as Frank parts his lips to let in a quivering breath.

" _Please_ ," Matt whispers feverishly and he's not sure exactly what he's asking for anymore but he doesn't care because Frank is suddenly there, warm and perfect as his arm wraps around Matt's unprotected side, pulling him in close.

Frank leans down, lips brushing hesitantly against Matt's forehead in a mockery of a kiss.

"Okay," Frank says a bit breathlessly. "Okay, Matt." It sounds like a promise.

So that's how Matt drifts, a steady warm presence holding him upright as he closes his eyes and submits to all of the feelings buried six feet under. It's not fair that this is how Frank gets to see him before their coffee date tomorrow, if he even still wanted to go. This isn't the way anyone should be seeing him, much less _Frank_.

God, _stupid, stupid, stupid._

The heartbeat next to him doesn't change as he floats in and out of conciousness, thoughts circling around his head in a haze. In fact, that heartbeat distantly sounds familiar as it thrums on and on like a broken record. 

It reminds him of a man, a _soldier_.

A soldier who fought and lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a little carried away. This seems to be a reoccurring theme though when I'm writing, so we're just going to roll with it! Originally, I was going to introduce Frank as the Punisher in this chapter but oh well... angst and fluff for the soul.
> 
> These past weeks I've been super busy, so unfortunately I wasn't able to get everything I wanted to get done. I hope this chapter can make up for it!


End file.
